Point and Line

"The art of the past hundred years is a vast continent of experience in both the creation of art and in the intellectual appropriation of the art of the past. Today, this continent lies virtually unexplored. Yet here alone is the ground on which can be built that community of creation out of which genuine art education must come." pg. 21

"In overspreading technique, both the fundamentalists and the avant-gardists in teaching mistake the nature of art in our time . . . . As Adolph Gottlieb has remarked, any artist with an idea will find out how to execute it; on the other hand, artists develop ideas through unfocused playing with their medium. The basic substance of art has become the protracted discourse in words and materials... on all aspects of contemporary civilization and of the place of creation and of the individual in it. The student-artist needs, while learning to see and execute, above all to be brought into this ^discourse, without which the history of modern painting and sculpture appears a gratuitous parade of fashions." [Rosenberg in 'Educating Artists.'] pg. 21.

Point. It is the most rudimentary element of design. It may or may not derive from something seen in nature, although nature does embellish many of its forms with this device: bird feathers, sea shells, flowers, and fish. A point could arouse a certain fascination on its own, especially when viewed very closely. Yet it is too small for sustained esthetic interest. It is almost always seen in combination with other elements, with other points, lines, and shapes. Like a single note in a musical composition, the point is only one of a group or a series, of a chord or a melody--important because of its place, its position, mainly. As Stravinsky says in Conversations with Igor Stravinsky: "The individual note determines the form only as part of the group or order." [pg. 21]

Position, Repetition, and Spatial Intervals. It is relative. Points or lines must relate to other points, lines, to other elements, as well as to the intervals of space between and around them. Nothing in design is more important than these spatial intervals. Some designs consist of points alone, such as those seen on book covers, printed fabrics, decorated wrapping paper, and wallpaper . . . . Josef Albers used points almost exclusively in a series of designs for record covers, with qualities both simple and sophisticated. Early and so-called primitive societies, in general, seem to have favored point designs in textiles, on painted surfaces of all types, in arrangements of beads, metal objects, and shells in jewelry, on their sculptured images, and even on the human body in the arts of scarification and tattoo. Our modern use of points often exceeds the realm of art and decoration. The Morse code, the Braille system for the blind, the perforated player piano roll, and the IBM card are examples of other ways of using points in communicating [The printed newspaper photo image, television image, etc.]. pg. 22-23]

Whereas the point in itself may be of little importance, it gains significance as soon as it takes its place in a design. Our first consideration is not points or lines as such, but their arangement in variously related positions that give rise to some kind of repetition. [pg. 23]

Repetition underlies all design, no matter how simple or complex. We recognize three types immediately: (1) sequence, (2) rhythm, and (3) balance. [pg. 23] It is one of the basic principles of design that can be demonstrated through points repeated in a variety of ways across broad surfaces. Points designate positions and create spatial relationships in some pattern-making. Designers of printed fabric, wallpaper, wrapping paper, tile, or mosaic figurations that must run on virtually without end have to decide on some scheme of repetition. The polka-dot field is the simplest way of organizing allover pattern repeat. The design motif replaces the dot in the chosen field. It may be inverted, it may alternate with another motif, and so on, but its position is determined by the basic field pattern. This method works well enough until one attempts the use of intricate linear motifs or interlocking geometric motifs. Then problems of continuity or periodic occurrence demand other solutions. Other "plane-filling systems" must be sought. 'Geometric Patterns and Borders' [David Wade, NY: Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1982, the Introduction], says that "two elements are required: a repeat motif conjoined with a structured or rhythmic base." Other types of "Ordered array," says Wade, include that of the Rorschach inkblot, solid (3-D) symmetry, and two-dimensional examples--^planar (infinite patterns), linear (frieze or border), and centered (finite). [pg. 27]

(1) Sequence - Regular repetition. The simplest type, sequence is the repetition of points, lines, shapes, or forms at regular or slightly varying intervals, as in a row of buttons on a shirt or stripes on a zebra, or words and lines on this page. [pg. 23]

(2) Rhythm - Accented repetition. Unlike mere sequence, consists of directional movement created by patterns of strong and weak pulsations. The rhythmical configurations of music are of course music itself. The rhythmical configurations of art and architecture, although of great importance, are of a different order. They consist of implied or "frozen" rhythms. Rhythm, instead of being a constituent of time and movement, as in music, is recast and represented all at once. It lies in wait for the eager, attentive observer. It may lie modestly on the surface as embellishment, or it may inform the whole design to a depth that is beyond simple analysis. Its influence is felt by those who have learned to participate imaginatively, intuitively, in great paintings, sculptures, and architectural creations. [pg. 24]

(3) Balance: Asymmetrical and Symmetrical - Stabilized repetition. The third type of repetition is stabilized repetition or balance, and, though it may have things in common with sequence and rhythm, it will not suggest movement along a continuous path. It restrains movement and organizes weights across a center of gravity, the precise location of which may not even be indicated in the design. If there is weight or "pull" in one direction, there is "pull" in the opposite direction across this center. Weights balance each other as do two children on a seesaw--the larger child sitting near the fulcrum, the smaller child sitting some distance away from it. The kind of balance we normally encounter in art and design is of a sort not so much "recognized" as felt by the observer.

Asymmetrical or Occult Balance. It is particularly difficult to describe . . . . Asymmetry, in all uses of it, has a way of inviting the spectator to participate in off-beat rhythms, elastic tempos, and tensions, to feel the internal life of the design . . . . It involves a balance of various qualities as much as balance of weights. Examples may include a large area of pale blue versus a small area of intense red, a solid form or shape versus a hollow shape, an area of great attractiveness versus an area of lesser appeal, advancing forms versus receding forms, and so forth. The word occult denotes secretiveness, mystery; and indeed there is something that keeps wanting to escape us in fine examples of this kind of balance. Some of these are to be found in ancient Chinese and Japanese paintings, in the art of Japanese flower arranging, and in the art of the Japanese garden.

Symmetrical or Obvious Balance. It is the sort that few would have trouble recognizing. Many prefer it, no doubt because it is stable, absolute, safe; but after a time it is likely to become too familiar, lifeless, finally invisible, unless energized by subtle contrasts and tensions. We observe it in perhaps its most boring manifestation in the house with the front door located dead center of two bay windows, or in a mantelpiece surmounted by a clock at the geometrical midpoint of two identical unused vases or candlesticks. With or without the clock, the balance would be perfectly symmetrical. We would yawn at its absent center. Nonetheless, some of the great designs of the world, from architecture, to furniture, to jewelry, are embodiments of inspired symmetry. [pg. 24-26]

Paul Klee (Swiss artist and teacher) used the terms:
Dividuality - To describe structures that may be extended indefinitely or reduced in area or extension without suffering any change in their basic makeup--as seen in allover patterns, borders, or yard good.

Individuality - Applies to structures that are not divisible, as the word individual denotes. We frequently use the word to describe someone who stands out from others because of some distinct trait. The more individual, the more eccentric or complex a person is, the less likely is he or she to be part of the crowd. Design motifs share the same characteristics. They are self-contained units of definite measure or extension, of unique structure. Nothing can be added or subtracted without changing them. Yet they may submit to repetition, they may give over to a larger, more universal ground plan, as in Islamic tile designs. A structure that is nonrhythmic, different in every part, may resist any manner of repetition. This is not the type we refer to here as motif. [pg. 27]

Motif. Properly understood, a motif is a relatively simple, individual unit that does not resist repetition or even development, as in a musical composition. Beethoven was fond of simple motifs and would develop them into the most wonderful structures of sound and expression. The first movement of his Symphony No. 5, Opus 67 provides a familiar example in the four-note motif of its first two measures [pg. 27]:

Constellations. From the regular placement of motifs on a predetermined field, we proceed to a kind of arrangement that ^dispenses with field-pattern altogether. Designs such as these would depend to a greater degree on intuition and spontaneous decisions. Our maneuvers may resemble a game of chess--minus the chessboard. [pg. 30]

Gestalt Psychology. [pg. 32]
The principles formulated by the German psychologist Max Wertheimer in the second and third decades of this century provide useful guide to the ordering of sense data from the realm of light, space, form, color, texture, and movement. Wertheimer's most cited contribution to Gestalt psychology (sometimes called configurationism) was the identification of four principles by which the organs of sight create order out of what would otherwise be optical chaos. According to his findings, objects, shapes, figures, and qualities are related to one another perceptually by:

(1) The principle of proximity. Proximity or nearness (similarity of location) - The eye is able to focus sharply on small shapes and objects located within very little distance of one another. These become related as a group, even if they are dissimilar in almost every way--in form, texture, value, or color.

(2) The principle of similarity. Similar form pattern, as well as size, color, and texture - If they are alike in one of several ways, the eye will have less difficulty relating them to one another, whether they lie lose together or at some distance apart).

(3) The principle of orientation or "good continuation." Similarity of direction, orientation, continuance, or speed - If points, lines, or shapes fall along a definite path, share the same kinetic energy or speed, or are long in general outline and are aimed in the same direction (like arrows), or even if they divide into two more directional movements (as, for example, in choreography or team sports), the eye will establish immediate sense and order.

(4) The principle of closure. Closure (evidently an extension of direction or continuance--The way lines, shapes, forms, even colors seem to want to achieve wholeness). If possible the eye will reduce even the most battered shape to its simplest ordered structure. It will complete a semicircle by "seeing" it whole. It will "finish" a broken arch or doorway, "correct" a faulty square, and, in so doing, make these comprehensible.

Moreover, the eye seems to want to group elements of "good form," that is, shapes or figures that are symmetrical, completed, made of clean contours, and the like--the very opposite of what the art of camouflage tries to do to form.

One or more of the principles will be operative in these point-line studies, although they may not be immediately evident. The elements and coordinates of a design set up a system of tensions to the moment they are placed in a field ["tension connects," Paul Klee said]. It could be said that we take advantage of perceptual factors, pointed out by Wertheimer, Arnheim, Gombrich, and others, by developing them consciously or unconsciously in the design. Some become powerful integrating forces. Working against these are the various counter-forces--wayward elements--that give life to many designs. We have to remind ourselves again and again, to place points and lines at both wide and narrow intervals, risk far-flung positions, like those observed in certain constellations. A single isolated point may take on extraordinary importance and balance off a large cluster of points lying some distance away from it. Inasmuch as these studies develop a keen eye for weights, tensions, groupings, and alignments, they should be repeated in as many ways as possible. Sooner or later, the student will discover the useful trick of unfocusing or "self-focusing" the eyes for a more comprehensive assessment of forces that have been set to work in the design. [pg. 32]

Composition With Points.
Composition. If these forces that pull inward and press outward are organized within a predetermined area, we may call the design a composition. The size and shape of the area or format are accepted from the start, as is the ring for a boxing match. Before anything is placed in this blank space, it reveals an intangible, invisible system of dynamic tensions of its own--rather, we read tensions into it. When the drama of point, line, shape, and color commences, the tensions will realign themselves and become part of the overall visual drama.

The square and the rectangle, more neutral than other areas, remain favorite formats. Their tensions do not intrude too forcibly into the events taking place within their boundaries. French painters over the years have recognized ^three basic types of stretcher frames for their canvases (1) Figure, which is almost square and ideally suited for figure paintings; (2) paysage, or landscape-type, which is rather close to the Golden Section rectangle; and (3) marine, a very long rectangle ideal for seascapes. Circles, triangles and rhomboids are difficult types, because they are commanding in their own right as shapes. The perceptual forces in the square or the not-too-narrow rectangle are easier to work with. They run from top to bottom and from side to side at right angles to each other, and from corner to corner diagonally through the center of the format where all tensions cross unless modified by a tendency of the eye to seek an area just above the middle as the psychological center, the visual center, as it is sometimes called. There is also a tendency in many people, especially those of Euro-American societies, to sense more visual weight or pull to the right than to the left, an unconscious desire to slide into that area by a left-to-right movement of the eye. On the other hand, I believe I have noticed the great Japanese film director Akiro Kurosawa making far more use of right-to-left movement s of actors and paraphernalia, and of the camera. Could it be that the directions of the way people write and read are the determining influences? The psychological and physical peculiarities of the flat surface do not end there. There is a strange ^compatibility of the "three-dimensional map" of the mind with the two-dimensional surface. The physical surface seems to endeavor to maintain its integrity unimpaired; nevertheless, instead of our seeing a point, a line, or a shape lying directly upon it, we are more likely to perceive it as though it were lying in front of the surface, or, in more intricate arrangements, behind the surface--that is, in depth. Pictorial depth enhances the quantity and, in many works, the quality of the space. Our aim, therefore is to become extraordinarily aware of this phenomenon in order that it may be used to structural and expressive advantage. [pg. 33]

The single point, as we have seen, is chiefly an element of location or position, and therefore, tends to be static. Yet a series of points or dashes is, in a sense, a broken line. The eye following the path of these simple marks, will grasp the original motor act and transform them into a linear trajectory. The experience of movement and the imagery of movement are so commonplace in the twentieth century that we are surprised and perhaps a little amused that the Italian artists known as the Futurists should have made such a great to-do about them in the years immediately preceding World War I. True, we have become accustomed to speeds they could hardly have imagined; yet their ability to translate movement into images of singular force, seen in those drawings and paintings celebrating rebellion, speed, and the machine, remains impressive. We are tempted to compare the best of their images with the great animal drawings found in the cave at Altamira in Northern Spain, were the movement of line is seemingly the movement of life itself. [pgs. 34-36]