The
  Cornell
    Journal
      of
        Architecture
9
Taste Is Critical



David Salomon

with Paul Andersen, is the author of the book The Architecture of Patterns. He currently teaches architectural theory at Cornell University Department of Architecture and the University of Pennsylvania.
. . . taste governs every free—as opposed to rote—human response. Nothing is more decisive.

—Susan Sontag


Long associated with subjectivity, frivolity, and pleasure, taste is notorious for being difficult to generalize. It is, we have been told, the antithesis of reason and the critical. However, in revisiting theories of taste—in particular those put forward by David Hume and Susan Sontag—one recognizes that it is both false and dangerous to have to choose between taste and these other modes of thought. This is especially true for aesthetic practices such as architecture. Instead, the relationship between these categories can be better understood as complementary, not contradictory.

In every dictionary definition of critical the operative term is judgment, specifically, judgments that are accurate, precise, and decisive; are negative or “censorious,” and are skillful with regard to literary or artistic works. Something that is critical is proscriptive: providing advice for what not to do aesthetically. In terms of architectural discourse and production, these definitions beg three questions: First, what skills and knowledge are required in order to be critical? Second, could one simultaneously be critical and prescriptive? And last, is taste the key to answering both of these questions?

The philosopher David Hume described taste using concepts and terms that are surprisingly similar to those used to describe critical. For him, taste is the faculty employed for making judgments, specifically those regarding sensorial and aesthetic phenomenon. Taste is a form of intelligence; a way of knowing the world by reconciling sensorial experience with cognition via one’s imagination; a faculty whose function is to establish connections between seemingly unlike categories, spaces, temporalities, and so on. It is the flip side of the critical: criticism dealing with negative assessment and feedback, taste concerning those associated with positive judgments and feedback.

In his essay, “Of the Standard of Taste,”[1] Hume notes that most “common sense” notions of taste maintain that all “sentiments” are equally true because they cannot be linked to a concept outside of themselves. In this conception, everybody’s individual taste is “right.” This is opposed to judgments of “understanding” (as found in philosophy and science), which are grounded by their adherence to external referents and are “always conformable to that standard.”

However, this lack of a unique standard does not render aesthetic experiences inconsequential or relative. Nor does it mean that sentiment and understanding are mutually exclusive modes of thought. While there may be no external or a priori rules governing the production and reception of aesthetic phenomenon, Hume argues that they are grounded, like all practical knowledge, “on experience and on the observation of the common sentiments of human nature.” In this realm, the works that are deemed the best are those that have withstood the test of time, and are generally agreed to exhibit the highest qualities of the art. This emphasis on historical continuity, he argues, accounts for why the rhetorical style of Cicero is still held in high regard even after the ideas that informed it have been rendered obsolete.

Still, who is allowed to establish and enforce this canon? What skills and qualities must the critic have to enable her to recognize the affinity between “form and sentiment” in works that either continue to earn praise or new ones that do? For Hume, people who can recognize otherwise hidden qualities and who are able to discriminate between better and worse examples are those who have taste. For him, the characteristics of and criteria for this capacity are: a delicacy of imagination; good sense (i.e., reason); the regular practice of these skills; constant comparisons between examples; a lack of prejudiced thinking.[2]

While he makes it clear that delicacy is a gift of birth, it, along with the others factors, can be improved or diminished over time depending on how often and well it is exercised and experienced. He also makes it clear that while the principles underlying this faculty are consistent, the specific skills and qualities necessary for developing one’s taste are historically conditioned, differ over time, from place to place, and from one discursive field to the next. The principles and practices of taste may not change, yet objects and contexts in which they emerge do. One must not only learn how to use taste, but one must do so within the confines of a specific cultural, historical, and aesthetic context. This requires one to fine-tune one’s faculties in order to determine when something is still relevant or superior and when something new is worthy of entering the canon.

But, does not the establishment of a canon, via expertise, knowledge, taste, or otherwise, preclude or at least slow down diversity and innovation? Late in his essay, Hume notes that there are conditions which, although not enough to undermine “all boundaries of beauty and deformity,” can account for and accept difference within the established order. The internal and external conditions that produce this variety being: the “different humours in men” and the “particular manners and opinions of our age and country.”[3]

How then is this not a return to there being multiple, if not an infinite number of “right” sentiments? Hume’s answer is that while there are not countless modes of aesthetic production, there is a plurality of them, each of them governed by their own standards. He takes pains not to establish a hierarchy among these different genres or sensibilities. The sublime, the tender, and raillery are equally valid.

While it is difficult if not impossible to employ the principles of taste from one medium to the next, within each medium—or from one era to another—one can be quite critical of the varying degrees of quality. Taste is thus neither universal nor infinitely fragmented. It is plural, yet specific with regard to history and medium. This tolerance of multiple modes is the opposite of the prejudice that prevents one from developing one’s taste. Having a specific sensibility or preference for one thing does not mean negating other equally valid ones. It would be a mistake, Hume notes, for “a critic to confine his approbation to one species or style of writing, and condemn all the rest.”[4] He continues, the selection of our preferred sensibilities occurs in the same way that we chose our friends, picking ones with whom we share the same “humour and disposition.” Taste is the faculty of recognition, camaraderie, and empathy. Empirically, via trial and error and habit, taste produces collective sensibilities from the aggregation of individual positions. It is political in that no position is universally recognized as valid, therefore, it must be defended and/or redefined in order for it to remain effective and relevant.

Moving On

. . . Intellectual progress usually occurs through sheer abandonment of questions together with both of the alternatives they assume—an abandonment that results from their decreasing vitality and a change of urgent interest. We don’t solve them: we get over them.

—John Dewey


What is essential for Hume, regardless of sensibility, time period, or culture, is that “morality” not be undermined or obfuscated. Sentiment and good taste cannot trump immoral acts. Good form cannot justify bad behavior.

Such is the accusation against what Robert E. Somol and Sarah Whiting call the “projective” in architectural discourse and production. To its detractors, the projective is dangerous because [1] it abandons both the means and the ends of “the critical” project; [2] it replaces them either with the facile charms of pragmatics and decoration, and (3) it furthers the agenda of the social, economic, and aesthetic status quo by failing to provide truly oppositional (i.e., structural or utopian) alternatives to it.[5]

While it is true that the negative, proscriptive logic of the critical have been challenged by the projective, and new modes of production have been proposed, it does not necessarily follow that this is a sign of capitulation to the forces that be. In fact, it would seem to be the opposite. Projective architects’ adaptation of ornamental, banal, and graphic sensibilities echoes Hume’s recognition of the need for the “particular manners and opinions of [an] age” to be developed in order for them to relate to a contemporary audience and problem.

Similarly, the emphasis on the plural is an important tenet of the projective, and represents an epistemological shift from the establishment of logical “if-then” statements, to the posing of aesthetic “What if…?” questions. This emphasis on multiple alternatives is not to be confused with utopian solutions, which seek to carve out a space of resistance or negation. Rather, it is a call for the proliferation of virtual alternatives that do not yet exist within current conditions.

Despite these divisions, there are some moments of continuity between the projective and the critical. An important example being Somol and Whiting’s emphasis on disciplinarity or autonomy, which they maintain, following K. Michael Hayes, is paradoxically understood as a precondition for engagement with the social, not a retreat from it.[6] The concept of autonomy is, of course, a touchstone of one of the founders of critical theory, Theodor Adorno, who argued that the critical work of art is at once generated by conditions found in the world, yet is simultaneously separate or isolated from it.

This paradoxical condition serves as a reminder of those ideas and actions that are impossible at any one historical moment, and thus have no home in the world other than in the estranged world of artistic form. Such forms are not intended to produce pleasure or pain; rather, they at once reveal and position themselves between human beings and the conditions that oppress them now. It is a temporal state that has been made formal.[7] Such aesthetic objects or forms are less uncanny (at once familiar and strange) but untimely; they are simultaneously early and late, or old and new.

What Somol and Whiting find objectionable is that by 2002 this previously exceptional position of critical architecture—straddling culture and form, engagement and estrangement—was deemed the de facto position attributed to all legitimate forms of architectural production. Further, there was seemingly only one long-standing aesthetic technique for articulating this position: indexicality. In addition to it being a representational rather than a propositional mode of production, the continued focus of critical architecture on a particular tactic runs counter to Adorno’s position that critical aesthetic strategies (and by extension, forms) needed to evolve in order to effectively address contemporary conditions; this capacity to adapt being a key characteristic of the avant-garde he championed.

Both the relevance and historically specific status of the form of the autonomous art object suggest that the necessary skill for designers and critics alike is to recognize when the context has changed significantly enough to warrant the devising of new strategies (formal and otherwise) for operating effectively in it. For the projective, this means that not only must one demonstrate what is missing in the world, but one must attempt to create new aesthetic and social formations by directly engaging the hegemonic tactics, techniques, and forms active in contemporary society. In this sense, the critique of the critical is less a question of substance than style. The dissatisfaction with and desire to show what can and cannot be found in contemporary society remains consistent, but the forms, and the level of engagement, have changed in order for them to be untimely in a different and more active way. This can be seen, for example, in the willingness to engage site and market mechanisms—such as design guidelines and marketing strategies—in order to more directly place oneself within the means of production, rather than stand aside from them.

However, when architecture engages these arenas, its legitimacy and effectiveness still rests on its ability to generate and design forms and sensibilities that are likewise untimely. It is this ability that allows architecture, when it engages issues outside its traditional scope—Somol and Whiting cite “economics and civic politics”—to do so not as experts in these subjects, nor as critics (i.e., negative assessors) of them, but as “experts in how design can [actively] affect these fields.”[8] Though Somol and Whiting do not explicitly define the term design, it is clear that it is not meant as a method of solving problems that have more than one right answer (as proposed by Herbert Simon). Rather, the understanding of design here seems closer to the creation of objects and events via aesthetic means. Following Hume then, this suggests that in order to be effective, architectural design, theory, and criticism must not only be armed with good intentions and knowledge, but with taste.

New Sensibilities

One of the most astute accounts regarding the social and cultural importance of creating new sensibilities and expanded tastes, and the need to breed more of them, is found in Susan Sontag’s essay “Notes on Camp.” Among the qualities Sontag found valuable about camp was the fact that it wasn’t conceived of as an exchange of bad for good art, or low for high taste. Rather, it rejected such false choices, instead offering “for art (and life) a different—a supplementary—set of standards” to make and judge cultural production.[9] Specifically, camp was understood as a contrasting addition to the “classical, serious, accurate and high minded” taste, and to the then more contemporary sensibility of “seriousness, anguish, cruelty, derangement” that described much modern art. If the former emphasized beauty, harmony, and completeness, and the latter violence and fragmentation, camp was an aesthetic of frivolity and openness, “incarnate[ing] a victory of ‘style’ over ‘content.’”[10]

This emphasis on style is not to be misunderstood as a narcissistic retreat into the pleasure of form for form’s sake. As Gregory Bateson argued a few years later, the types of messages that are sent and received via aesthetic means are different than those conveyed via “content” or reason. Form not only communicates differently, it communicates categorically different kinds of messages, ones that cannot be sent via linear cognitive processes. Bateson was fond of quoting Isadora Duncan’s comment: “If I could say it, I wouldn’t have to dance it” to make his point.[11] For Bateson, the message aesthetic phenomenon sent was about “patterns that connect,” at a subconscious level, all living and thinking “minds” with one another. The production and recognition of aesthetic encounters, however, was not limited to the fine arts or to certain aspects of nature. Rather, it could be found in a plethora of places and processes. In fact, for Bateson, the use of subconscious or primary processes necessary to both make and experience art was an important antidote to contemporary society’s emphasis on purposeful, rational, linear, and conscious processes. Not because they were inherently liberating or resistant, but because it made one have to literally think differently (subconsciously, habitually), requiring one to find connections, or patterns, that linked disparate cultural and natural phenomenon.[12]

Sontag shares Bateson’s expanded, formal, epistemological, and political notion of aesthetic creation and reception. For her, camp had serious ethical implications, as it revealed “another kind of truth about the human situation, another experience of what it is to be human—in short, another valid sensibility”;[13] a sensibility that, not unimportantly, was often produced and championed by a marginalized social group: (a subset of) urban gay men. Camp, like all sensibilities, became an avenue for generating and legitimizing a different form of personal and collective identity. Despite appearances, camp was neither im- nor amoral, nor anti-intellectual. Sontag notes that while morals are essential and generative, they are also somewhat fixed. What really counts, she argues, is “the style in which ideas are held. The ideas about morality and politics … [in camp are] held in a special playful way,”[14] a way that makes them valuable to someone who can discern the characteristics of this sensibility, that is, someone with a taste for camp. In this case camp, as a sensibility that may initially have appeared foreign, crude, and superficial, can, with practice, constant comparison, and good sense, become an ever more delicate and better-understood way of knowing the world.

Perspective, Ciudad del Flamenco, City of Jerez de la Frontera, Spain, 2003–2007, Herzog & de Meuron, © Herzog & de Meuron.
Perspective, Ciudad del Flamenco, City of Jerez de la Frontera, Spain, 2003–2007, Herzog & de Meuron, © Herzog & de Meuron.

Detail of Wall Pattern, Ciudad del Flamenco, City of Jerez de la Frontera, Spain, 2003–2007, Herzog & de Meuron, © Herzog & de Meuron.<br />
<br />
Vividness is a quality often found in the work of Herzog & de Meuron. In their design for the Ciudad de Flamenco (Jerez de la Frontera, Spain, 2003), a two-dimensional pattern inspired by Gypsy culture, Arabic iconography, and 20th-century graffiti establishes a rough yet lyrical sensibility that literally permeates the tectonics of the project. By rescaling, repeating, and thickening the pattern, they are able to transform it into a malleable and permeable perimeter wall that seamlessly morphs as it takes on the various roles of low building wall, courtyard fence, and structural skin for the museum tower. This surprisingly robust pattern maintains its intricate feel even as it adjusts itself to the more strict logics of a construction system. Despite these multiple transformations and performances, the edgy graphic quality of the original is consistently present. As a result, the building addresses an unusual architectural question: What if we make a building out of ornament/graffiti?
Detail of Wall Pattern, Ciudad del Flamenco, City of Jerez de la Frontera, Spain, 2003–2007, Herzog & de Meuron, © Herzog & de Meuron.

Vividness is a quality often found in the work of Herzog & de Meuron. In their design for the Ciudad de Flamenco (Jerez de la Frontera, Spain, 2003), a two-dimensional pattern inspired by Gypsy culture, Arabic iconography, and 20th-century graffiti establishes a rough yet lyrical sensibility that literally permeates the tectonics of the project. By rescaling, repeating, and thickening the pattern, they are able to transform it into a malleable and permeable perimeter wall that seamlessly morphs as it takes on the various roles of low building wall, courtyard fence, and structural skin for the museum tower. This surprisingly robust pattern maintains its intricate feel even as it adjusts itself to the more strict logics of a construction system. Despite these multiple transformations and performances, the edgy graphic quality of the original is consistently present. As a result, the building addresses an unusual architectural question: What if we make a building out of ornament/graffiti?

Plan and Section Diagrams, Unit Plans, and Model, Holbaek Kasba, Holbaeck, Denmark, Bjarke Ingles Group 2006. Images courtesy of Bjarke Ingles Group.<br />
<br />
In big’s Holbaek Kasba housing project (Holbaek, Denmark, 2006), the process is presented as if it were an exercise in pattern making. The diagrams illustrating the project depict how an orthogonal grid gave way to skewed pentagon shaped forms and a hexagonal pattern of streets. The multicolored plans and axons of the units (which are themselves highly differentiated) extend the explicit quality of the drawings. In comparison, the predominately white model is relatively subdued, despite housing an unexpected variety of unit types. And yet the clarity, intensity, and campy quality of the drawings is matched by the model’s graphic depiction of the alternately white and green street surfaces and the deep shadows cast into them. In short, every depiction reaffirms the explicit quality one expects from an ideogram, an effect one hopes the built version would also contain.
Plan and Section Diagrams, Unit Plans, and Model, Holbaek Kasba, Holbaeck, Denmark, Bjarke Ingles Group 2006. Images courtesy of Bjarke Ingles Group.

In big’s Holbaek Kasba housing project (Holbaek, Denmark, 2006), the process is presented as if it were an exercise in pattern making. The diagrams illustrating the project depict how an orthogonal grid gave way to skewed pentagon shaped forms and a hexagonal pattern of streets. The multicolored plans and axons of the units (which are themselves highly differentiated) extend the explicit quality of the drawings. In comparison, the predominately white model is relatively subdued, despite housing an unexpected variety of unit types. And yet the clarity, intensity, and campy quality of the drawings is matched by the model’s graphic depiction of the alternately white and green street surfaces and the deep shadows cast into them. In short, every depiction reaffirms the explicit quality one expects from an ideogram, an effect one hopes the built version would also contain.

Zollverein School of Management and Design, Essen, Germany. Plan (Ground to 3rd floor), Elevation, Exterior, and Interior. Courtesy of SANAA. 2006. Photographs ©thomasmayerarchive.com.<br />
<br />
In contrast to these more unexpected sources and solutions, SANAA’s commitment to reanimating the white box has resulted in no less explicit or vivid pattern. Theirs is a quiet yet intense patterning. This paradox is evident in their drawings, which despite the paucity of ink, are forceful in their simplicity. The plans and sections of the Zollverein School of Management (Essen, Germany, 2006) are so lacking in expression that they threaten to raise banality to new heights. <br />
<br />
The elevations and facades are slightly more revealing but are still subdued; the apertures bunching around two out of the four corners producing the most intense image of the exterior. It is only with the model, and finally the building itself, where more conventionally expressive qualities are exposed. In what otherwise would be described as rough, unfinished, warehouse-like spaces, the interiors are enlivened, even haunted, by the strangely scaled patterns produced by the shadows produced on these unadorned concrete surfaces. As these distorted, fleeting, and hard to account for rectangular and square outlines spill across the floors and up the walls, they generate an unexpectedly distorted and strange patterns; ones that intensify the simple, enigmatic, yet lighthearted quality of the project. While every building with apertures might produce this generic effect, it is the intensity and directness with which SANAA manipulates this architectural inevitability that enables them to generate a different sensibility, one that is at once understated, explicit, and vivid. This project, and their work in general, asks: How can one create unique ends using the most conventional of means?
Zollverein School of Management and Design, Essen, Germany. Plan (Ground to 3rd floor), Elevation, Exterior, and Interior. Courtesy of SANAA. 2006. Photographs ©thomasmayerarchive.com.

In contrast to these more unexpected sources and solutions, SANAA’s commitment to reanimating the white box has resulted in no less explicit or vivid pattern. Theirs is a quiet yet intense patterning. This paradox is evident in their drawings, which despite the paucity of ink, are forceful in their simplicity. The plans and sections of the Zollverein School of Management (Essen, Germany, 2006) are so lacking in expression that they threaten to raise banality to new heights.

The elevations and facades are slightly more revealing but are still subdued; the apertures bunching around two out of the four corners producing the most intense image of the exterior. It is only with the model, and finally the building itself, where more conventionally expressive qualities are exposed. In what otherwise would be described as rough, unfinished, warehouse-like spaces, the interiors are enlivened, even haunted, by the strangely scaled patterns produced by the shadows produced on these unadorned concrete surfaces. As these distorted, fleeting, and hard to account for rectangular and square outlines spill across the floors and up the walls, they generate an unexpectedly distorted and strange patterns; ones that intensify the simple, enigmatic, yet lighthearted quality of the project. While every building with apertures might produce this generic effect, it is the intensity and directness with which SANAA manipulates this architectural inevitability that enables them to generate a different sensibility, one that is at once understated, explicit, and vivid. This project, and their work in general, asks: How can one create unique ends using the most conventional of means?


Critical Taste

Historically, camp emerged and was effective when a culture, or a part of a culture “realize[d] that ‘sincerity’ is not enough”[15] to create social change. The then current (circa 1964) sensibility of seriousness was deficient because it was neither able to distance itself from reality nor was it recognized as directly engaging itself within current ideological battles. By introducing a new standard—“artifice as an ideal”—camp proposed an untimely interjection into an era (the cold war) that was serious to the point of suicide.

Nearly half a century later, we find ourselves in a similarly serious moment. Thus, it is not too surprising that an architecture that emphasizes the quirky, the humorous, and the campy has emerged. For firms like OMA, Herzog & de Meuron, Bjake Ingles Group (BIG), Jurgen Meyer H., Atelier Bow Wow, and SANAA, humor is clearly an important goal of the work. While they may stress this effect over a project’s meaning, structure, or performance, these requirements are far from ignored. In fact, these practices are hyperdisciplinary in their attention on the manipulation of spaces, surfaces, shapes, and activities. However, these are initially developed and distributed according to a sensibility, as opposed to starting with efficiency or some other seemingly more expedient logic.

One tactic that is often taken up by these firms to produce a project’s sensibility is patterning; patterns that can best be described as explicit and vivid.[16] These two qualities are often combined to produce work that is simultaneously clear and complex; both blunt and extravagant. The result is work that has the qualities of immediacy and intensity; effects that don’t wear off and that penetrate beyond the surfaces into the inner workings of both buildings and minds.

That many contemporary architectural artifacts, have camplike qualities should not be understood as another postmodern quotation. Rather, this “work on form” echoes Bateson’s interest in the epistemological instrumentality of form. For Bateson, an aesthetic object’s effectiveness relies not on its meaning, or on its capacity to perform a specific task. Rather, it must act sensorially (e.g., make you smile or laugh), which in turn produces a feeling of “recognition and empathy” between oneself, the work, and the larger context in which the encounter occurs.[17] The production and recognition of such affects is dependent on the presence of taste in both the design and its reviewer. However, not everyone will be able to immediately recognize, or empathize with, every sensibility. That capacity, Bateson argues, requires both producers and consumers of aesthetic phenomena (which are broadly defined to include many categories of objects and events) to hone their skills of making and judging.[18] That is, they must exercise and improve their taste.

Today’s explicit and vivid patterns require new modes of criticism to effectively examine, develop, and make judgments about the effects they produce.

It requires that we simultaneously expand and refine our criticism and our taste—as Sontag did in her “Notes”—in order to see what new architectural and social effects and constituencies they can attract, produce, or inhibit. To start, such criticism requires making careful and repeated aesthetic observations and comparisons. It also demands making judgments that are not prejudiced but remain political; that is, far from producing consensus, they enable one to effectively choose sides. And yet, what does such work oppose? How does focusing on seemingly autonomous disciplinary issues—walls, windows, streets, and surfaces, as well as plans, sections, and elevations—make architectural discourse and production critical and/or political? Who or what does it emancipate? For starters, the discipline. As with the camp, explicit and vivid patterns and sensibilities can help to loosen the tyranny from the all-too-few modes of production and expression currently available to architecture. While it does not, and cannot, offer a specific alternative to institutional power, it does what aesthetic practices do best: challenge that power’s sensibility by proposing alternative ones. In other words, taste is something that architecture must be critical with, not of.


Endnotes

1. David Hume, “Of the Standard of Taste,” in Aesthetics: A Comprehensive Anthology, Steven M. Cahn and Aaron Meskin (eds.) (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2008), 103–112.
2. Ibid.
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid.
5. George Baird, “‘Criticality’ and Its Discontents,” Harvard Design Magazine 21 (Fall 2004/Winter 2005); Reinhold Martin, “Critical of What?” Harvard Design Magazine 22 (Spring/Summer
2005).
6. Robert Somol and Sarah Whiting, “Notes Around the Doppler Effect and Other Moods of Modernism,” Perspecta 33 (2002): 72–77.
7. Theodor Adorno, from “Aesthetic Theory,” in Aesthetics: A Comprehensive Anthology, Steven M. Cahn and Aaron Meskin (eds.) (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2008), 358–369. In Adorno’s words “unresolved antagonisms of reality reappear in art in the guise of immanent problems of artistic form”; form which presents both “an aesthetically complete object, while preserving within it the traces or fracture of those elements which resisted integration” and thus remain estranged, or absent from it, such as political and economic reform.
8. Somol & Whiting, op cit.
9. Susan Sontag, “Notes on Camp,” in Against Interpretation and Other Essays (New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1966), 286.
10. Ibid., 287–288.
11. Gregory Bateson, “Style, Grace and Information in Primitive Art,” Steps to an Ecology of Mind (New York: Ballantine, 1972), 137–138.
12. Ibid., 144–147.
13. Sontag, 287.
14. Ibid., 288.
15. Ibid.
16. On patterns, see Paul Andersen and David Salomon, The Architecture of Patterns (New York: Norton, 2010); and Andersen and Salomon, “Promiscuous Patterns, Synthetic Architecture,” Harvard Design Magazine 31 (Fall/Winter 2009–2010).
17. Gregory Bateson, Mind and Nature: A Necessary Unity (New York: Dutton, 1979), 8.
18. Bateson, 147–149.



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