Himnae
Recently completed: Himnae, 42 x 84″

We all have a favorite go to distraction we turn to when things aren’t flowing (or don’t seem to be, which is a common deception.) Books, especially really great ones, are my Balm of Gilead.

And right now, for whatever reason, I have a huge stack of new and “must read” books.* It is like someone brought a truck load of mangoes and emptied them in my front yard, all of them perfectly formed, fragrant and ripe.

Managing excess has never been my strong suit.

As deep and delicious as my book stack is right now, reading in that full immersion manner comes at a cost. Too much of it, even when it is so satisfying and insightful, precludes other things from happening that are important for creative practice. I’m a painter, not a writer. While books will always be an essential part of my creative life, they are not my métier. My work is turning ideas, impressions, hunches and evocations into a visual language.

I found some needed grounding from the poet Jane Hirschfield. In her new book (but of course!), Ten Windows, she articulated the work I need to do:

The mind does not remain rooted in any one statement; it, too, moves ceaselessly from one state to the next. One of the ways it does this is by musing—no accident, that word used to describe the ways in which thought’s more fluid transformations occur. “To muse” implies entering a condition of idleness, outside the responsibilities of the fully adult: a playfulness marks the self-amusing, musing mind. It lifts a thing, turns it over, licks it, sees if it moves; explores in a way that leaves behind both simple preconception and the directionality of strict purpose. Here, too, etymology reveals. “Muse” derives from the Latin mussare, meaning first “to carry in silence,” then “to brood over in silence and uncertainty,” and then only finally “to murmur or mutter, to speak in an undertone.” Musing, it seems, is a thing that happens best in the circumstances of quiet. Undogmatic and tactful before the object of its attention, musing does not impose, but bears witness. It quietly considers, and then, when it finally speaks, does so with the voice, respectful of other presences, that we use in a library, church, or museum—the voice used, that is, when we feel we are in the company of something more important than ourselves. The mind that muses is modest and un-insistent, permeable to what lies beyond comprehension, amenable to some sense of proportion and the comic. Arrogance reserves itself for the more self-involved.

To lift a thing, to turn it over, to take a lick. To sit in quiet, in modest un-insistency. That’s my job: engaging with the self-amusing, musing mind.

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For those of you who are, like me, always on the look out for that next great read, here’s my current list:

Agnes Martin: Her Life and Art, by Nancy Princenthal (and another book about Martin written by Briony Fer is coming out in a few weeks)

Mark Rothko: Toward the Light in the Chapel, by Annie Cohen-Solal

Chatting with Henri Matisse: The Lost 1941 Interview (Thank you Kitty Bancroft for flagging this Getty Publication from last year)

The Contemporaries: Travels in the 21st Century Art World, by Roger White

The Artful Universe Expanded, by John Barrow

Ten Windows, by Jane Hirschfield (her earlier volume, Nine Gates, has been quoted from repeatedly here on Slow Muse)

On Elizabeth Bishop, by Colm Tóibín

No Other Gods, poems by Todd Hearon (and so honored to have one of my paintings on the cover)

My Struggle Book 1, by Karl Ove Knausgaard, just the first of what could be a double digit volume set of this unexpectedly hypnotic account of an ordinary life (thank you book lover and kinswoman Rebecca Ricks for encouraging me to jump in now)

What Would Lynne Tillman Do?, by Lynne Tillman

Open City by Teju Cole (thank you Tim Rice)

Euphoria, by Lily King (recommended by the reliable book scouting team of Michael and Mary Pat Robertson)

And my favorite indulgence: Games of Thrones, by George R. R. Martin. After getting completely seduced by the HBO series, I had to research how the storytelling could be so expertly crafted. Amazingly, Martin’s writing is really compelling. Who knew?

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Agnes Martin (Photo: Mildred Tolbert)

From the newly released Agnes Martin: Her Life and Art, by Nancy Princenthal:

Martin’s mature paintings (she destroyed most of her early work) are incontrovertibly right, in the sense that they convince us that not a single preliminary decision or incident of execution could have been changed without damage. Composed of the simplest elements, including ruled, penciled lines and a narrow range of forms—grids, stripes, and, very occasionally, circles, triangles and squares—and painted in a limited palette on canvases that are always square, they reveal an esthetic sense that is, as her friend Ann Wilson said, the visual equivalent of perfect pitch.

What a thing to say about a body of work: pitch perfect. Having just gone through the arduous task of culling through my archives and throwing out a lot of old work, that perfect pitchness looms as a specter. We all want to achieve that with every piece, but it is a rare state.

I am not a perfectionist (which would be a crippling quality for anyone who learns by doing), but my decision to keep a work or to give it a toss came down to which pieces could hold that essential tension, a version of Wilson’s perfect pitch. There has to be something in the intrinsic energetics of the work that holds the parts together in a precarious, “this almost doesn’t work but it does” delicate balancing. In its own way it is a kind of immutability: that a particular painting is just what it must be, and wouldn’t work in any other form.

Noguchi said, “For artists there is no such thing as progress. It’s only a deepening.” That’s definitely the direction.

And apropos to that, another passage from Princenthal’s wonderful book:

To be abstracted is to be at some distance from the material world. It is a form of local exaltation but also, sometimes, even disturbance…Agnes Martin, one of the most esteemed abstract painters of the second half of the twentieth century, expressed—and, at times, dwelled in—the most extreme forms of abstraction: pure, silencing, enveloping, and upending.

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Sarah Manguso, photographed at home in Los Angeles. Photograph: Barry J. Holmes for the Observer

I read Alice Gregory‘s review of Ongoingness: The End of a Diary, by Sarah Manguso in the New Yorker a few months ago. I knew I would love this slim slip of a book, which I do.

Gregory’s review is so good—as is the one written by Maria Popova on Brainpickings—that I don’t feel the need to spend time explaining the curious nature of this book that is about writing a diary while never including a single line from that compulsively written, 800,000 word document. Manguso’s exploration is a memoir and a meditation, full of wisdom about about many things but most notably about time and how it passes through our lives.

Manguso’s sense of time and of herself shifted deeply when she had a child. “When I am with my son, I feel the bracing speed of the one-way journey that guides human experience.” She continues in this vein: “Perhaps all anxiety might derive from a fixation on moments—an inability to accept life as ongoing.”

After a lifetime of being fixated—I think it is fair to say obsessed—with writing down everything that was happening to her, she no longer needs the diary. Manguso arrives at this simple but beautiful place:

The best thing about time passing is the privilege of running out of it, of watching the wave of mortality break over me and everyone I know. No more time, no more potential. The privilege of ruling things out. Finishing. Knowing I’m finished. And knowing time will go on without me.

Look at me, dancing my little dance for a few moments against the background of eternity.

One step more: Gregory ends her review by moving beyond the strictly personal and looking at how our lives are playing out in a 21st century world of social media, self reporting and ever morphing personal relationships:

One could argue that reading memoirs comes more naturally to us now than ever before. Our critical faculties and emotional voyeurism are primed as they’ve never been. Social media barrage us daily with fragmented first-person accounts of people’s lives. We have become finely tuned instruments of semiotic analysis, capable of decoding at a glance the false enthusiasm of friends, the connotations of geotags, the tangle of opinions that lie embedded in a single turn of phrase. Continuously providing updates on life for others can encourage a person to hone a sense of humor and check a sense of privilege. It can keep friendships alive that might otherwise fall victim to entropy. But what constantly self-reporting your own life does not seem to enable a person to do—at least, not yet—is to communicate to others a private sense of what it feels like to be you. With “Ongoingness,” Manguso has achieved this. In her almost psychedelic musings on time and what it means to preserve one’s own life, she has managed to transcribe an entirely interior world. She has written the memoir we didn’t realize we needed.

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Native American weir

Consciousness is a weir. What gets snagged in the watery carapace of life flowing through us often has meaning that is very particular and specific. It’s a bit like dreams, those cinematic wonders that are designed for and about only us. The wisdom that gets caught in our consciousness weir is a bit easier to share however, and I’ve had a few pass through these last few days that may speak to you too.

From the ever-extraordinary Rebecca Solnit, in her Orion piece called Finding Time:

The Four Horsemen of my Apocalypse are called Efficiency, Convenience, Profitability, and Security, and in their names, crimes against poetry, pleasure, sociability, and the very largeness of the world are daily, hourly, constantly carried out. These marauding horsemen are deployed by technophiles, advertisers, and profiteers to assault the nameless pleasures and meanings that knit together our lives and expand our horizons…

I believe that slowness is an act of resistance, not because slowness is a good in itself but because of all that it makes room for the things that don’t get measured and can’t be bought.

Solnit’s words dovetail nicely with Patricia Druckerman‘s commencement advice for the Paris College of Art, published in the New York Times:

Stay in the room. It needn’t be an actual room. You can be alone in a busy cafe. I’ve gotten some of my best ideas while walking, or riding the Paris Metro…I’ve never gotten a good idea while checking Twitter or shopping.

You need to be blank, and even a little bit bored, for your brain to feed you ideas. The poet Wendell Berry wrote that in solitude, “one’s inner voices become audible.” Figure out your clearest, most productive time of day to work, and guard this time carefully.

Always carry a pen, a paper notebook and something good to read. A lot of life consists of the dead time in between events. Don’t fill these interstitial moments with pornography and cat videos. Fill them with things that feed your work and your soul.

These are messages that speak to the interstitial, that space in between a something that was and a something that will be. Time zone displacement can create that in betweenness, but it also can happen when one large arc of work is finished and the next large gesture isn’t quite clear. As described by Interstitial: A Journal of Modern Culture and Events:

In the modern era, interstitiality, or the space between one boundary and the next, has become an urgent area of investigation. Existing within and between entities, interstices challenge conventional understandings of boundedness, inviting us to rethink the space between objects and ideas as an erupting site of transformation.

I’m there.

Note: Thanks to my ever resourceful friend and niece Rebecca Ricks for flagging the Solnit quote.

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The only way I can imagine discussing my time in China is from a few small side glances. The incomprehensible immensity of the country, the complexity of its 6,000 year history, the speed with which everything that cannot adapt to China’s streamlined, extraordinary collective vision of the future is being torn down, discarded and abandoned—I am not equipped to put all those vectors into a narrative that could make sense in a few paragraphs. For those who want something more substantial, a slew of well informed books are out there about the emergence of the new China. In many ways it is one of the most significant story lines unfolding on the planet right now. I think I kind of knew that before I went. But I now have a much better understanding of just how immense it actually is. I am still a bit speechless about what I saw and learned during those two and a half weeks.

Meanwhile China does not allow access to Google, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or email if you are a gmail user. “We have our own version of those platforms,” was the cheerful response we heard when we asked people about being shut out. “For us, things are so much better than they used to be!” Normal is a temperature setting, not an absolute.

In writing about Dante, Robert Pogue Harrison captured some of the conflicting complexity I experienced while in China:

For those of us who belong to a modern age where all is relative, where one hand always comes with the other, and where uncertainty is our only certainty, there is something captivating and liberating about the unconditional moral clarity of Dante’s vision.

So no, I cannot offer an unconditional moral clarity about anything I experienced. What I can share is my personal journey into particular aspects of the visual culture of China.

I was keenly aware of how my eye was shifting with repeated exposure to a new set of cultural idioms. After years of looking at Chinese painting with the uninformed curiosity of someone who never having studied Asian art with the same intensity with which Western art was plumbed, I began falling under the spell of Ming and Qing Dynasty ink landscapes on paper and silk. The aura of solitude, the monochromaticism, the quality of the mark making and brushstrokes, the way scale is achieved in these panoramic landscapes—it became increasingly familiar and exquisite. Much of the contemporary art in Shanghai and Beijing has its roots in that Chinese heritage, wonderfully so. It was those works that embodied aspects of that Asian tradition that spoke most forcefully to me rather than that ubiquitous, Western-influenced, International popular culture iconography that shows up everywhere these days.

Below are a few images that stood out for me. The first set is of contemporary art. Very few of these are identifiable since I don’t know Chinese. If there is something that catches your interest, please feel free to contact me. I can at least tell you where I saw it.

The images after those are more generic views. A new landscape feeds the artist’s eye in its own particular way, and sharing these feels imporant too.

Contemporary art in China:

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The Commune at the Great Wall, a collection of structures designed by contemporary Asian architects:

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The Commune has its own private segment of the Great Wall:

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From the Museums:

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Favorite signs:

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Street and monument views:

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Last but not least, the beloved pandas in Chengdu:

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The headline in the Parrot’s Weekly read: Titantic Sunk. No Parrots Hurt.

–Katharine Whitehorn, quoted in The Artful Universe by John D. Barrow

Oh the power of a point of view…Parrots may not be your thing, but something is.

Washington’s poet laureate Elizabeth Austen speaks to our proclivity to narrowbanding in her piece, How poetry can help us say the unsayable:

We make our world by what we choose to see.

I wrote that line years ago, and have copied it from notebook to notebook, waiting for the rest of the poem to arrive. But lately I’ve begun wondering if maybe it’s less a fragment of a future poem and more a manifesto.

At first glance, it might seem like an endorsement of confirmation bias, that all-too-human tendency to only value evidence that confirms our existing ideas and opinions.

Confirmation bias is most insidious as it relates to beliefs we’re not conscious of: We filter the world around us, selectively noticing, believing and remembering things that affirm our ideas, all the while unaware of the unconscious editing we’re doing moment by moment.

We make our world by what we choose to see.

The operative word is “choose.” We can actively cultivate—seek out, take in, consider—perspectives that complicate and expand our view and, thus, our world. Or not.

And from Ralph Waldo Emerson:

From the mountain you see the mountain. We animate what we can, and we see only what we animate. Nature and books belong to the eyes that see them.

These jewel-like mantras feel very useful, and they will fit easily in my backpack of supplies as I head to “new to me” destinations in Asia.

It isn’t hard to get caught in a life that is way too focused on tracking parrots—or whatever it is that consumes the conscious mind day in and out. And as Emerson suggests, we can animate the world anew no matter where we are. But one of the best aspects of a trip to somewhere else for me is the involuntary shift in the frame I have been using. That dislocation forces my hand, gratefully. So yes, I am so ready for a full scale reboot.

I’ll be back Slow Musing in June.

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A few installation shots from my recent show at the Morris Graves Museum in Eureka California, Behind, Beyond, Beneath: Scaling the Continuum. At the opening event on Saturday night, over 800 people came through the museum. I met some extraordinary people and had a terrific evening.

Special thanks:

A stellar team and museum staff—Jemima Harr, Janine Murphy, Laurey Sullivan, Virginia Wood, Laurie Arupa Richardson, Lisa Polack, Dennis Winstead and the Humboldt Arts Council.

Kevin Simmers, Ed Carrigan and Alison Yerxa for being my road trip buddies.

Dale Boudreau et al who made the long drive from Seattle.

Martine Bisagni, Amani Ansari and Brooklyn Workshop Gallery for joining in with an exquisite arrangement of flowers. The colors were perfect.

A few installation shots before the crowd arrived…

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‘Ghost Dance Dress’; Southern Arapaho artist, Oklahoma, circa 1890
‘Ghost Dance Dress': Southern Arapaho artist, Oklahoma, circa 1890 (Photo: Joshua Ferdinand)

The best way I know of dealing with the scale and scope of the Metropolitan Museum is to walk through and let the objects find you. Art critic Michael Kimmelman did his own version of the “evocation stroll” in the company of numerous artists (experiences he wrote about in Portraits: Talking with Artists at the Met, the Modern, the Louvre and Elsewhere), and artist Altoon Sultan often shares her Met connects on her popular blog, Studio and Garden.

I can feel the difference when I shift the construct from “finding” to “being found.” When you turn that around, the unexpected appears.

During my recent visit to the Met, I was “found” by an unexpected array of objects: A Van Gogh landscape, the entire Koran handwritten on a scroll, 15th century Florentine storage chests (cassoni) with painted fronts, and the exhibit, Book for Architects, by Wolfgang Tillmans (written about here.)

But the most haunting evocation happened in the exhibition, The Plains Indians: Artists of Earth and Sky. Hanging in its own dark sepulcher built at the heart of the exhibit, the Ghost Dance dress pulled me in.

From Thomas Powersreview in the New York Review of Books:

The dress is made of hide colored brick red with rubbed-in pigment. The sleeve ends, side seams, and skirt are decorated with abundant fine green fringes. A bottom border is blue with many four-pointed stars. The body of the dress is decorated with drawings front and back including a left hand in yellow, a turtle, thunderbirds, a magpie, a buffalo, a large four-pointed star, and other symbols and images with powerful traditional meanings. Was this dress ever worn by a ghost dancer? Without a solid provenance it is impossible to say, but the images on the dress are eloquent evidence of the whole-souled yearning that was expressed in the ghost dance movement of 1890.

It appears that this object found Powers very much as it found me. “The Southern Arapaho ghost dance dress expresses the impossible dream of a people who have lost everything but memory.” Loaded with evocative power.

Can an object carry collective memory for a culture? I’m not sure how this works. I do know that I have looked at this image of the ghost dance dress every day since I first saw it. It has showed up in my dreams and while I am working in the studio. In the spirit of letting yourself be found, I’m signed up to go where it takes me.

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Some background on the Ghost Dance:

The Ghost Dance became a religious movement centered around a visionary Indian named Wovoka, a Northern Paiute living in Nevada. The belief was that dancing in a particular way, singing sacred songs and wearing special clothing would bring back the old way of life on the Plains before the Europeans arrived. Some tribes, particularly the Lakota, believed that the ghost dance clothing was a form of protection, and that wearing it in battle would protect them from gunshot and death.

Through contact with Wovoka, the ghost dance spread from tribe to tribe. Not surprisingly the whites were frightened by this indigenous sense of power and destiny. That overreaction led to devastating consequences at Wounded Knee.

Clothing, especially in battle, was not part of the Plains Indian tradition. Some historians believe the concept of attire that possesses magical powers came from contact with early Mormon settlers. (Mormons wear undergarments, garnered with symbols, that are believed to protect the body.)

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“Book for Architects,” by Wolfgang Tillmans (Photo: Francesco Galli)

Over the past ten years, I have photographed buildings in ordinary and extraordinary contexts in thirty-seven countries on five continents. Displaying the complexity and the irrationality—sometimes madness—and at other times the beauty of architecture, these pictures in their totality seem to me a little daunting but have always been taken with a kind eye. I’m aware that architecture is an expression of desires, hopes, and ambitions as well as myriad practical needs and limitations that shape a structure’s design. I am fascinated by the infinite number of formal and structural solutions, seen en masse and the world over, that human logic found for similar problems.

Book for Architects is not a book design for a video installation, presented as a looped projection of still images on two walls. My interest is not a typological examination but to show a sequence and an arrangement of images that echo what examples of the built environment look and feel like to me. I don’t use wide-angle or shift lenses but a standard lens that most closely approximates the perspective of the human eye. The various elements of architecture appear here at times clearly and cleanly and at other times in a layered and convoluted way. As such, the installation represents, and emulates, the randomness, beauty and imperfection that characterizes the built realty, both past and present.

—Introduction to Book for Architects, by Wolfgang Tillmans

I’m a long time fan of the wide ranging talents of photographer Wolfgang Tillmans. His installation at the Met Museum, Book for Architects, is yet another Tillmansian dive into a particular topic that will permanently change the way you see and perceive that subject going forward.

Probably better known for his cultural documentation and stark portraits, Tillmans states that he has always had an interest in architecture, particularly stemming from his curiosity about the impact of individual decisions in shaping the overall design of a city. “That is my fascination with architecture,” he said. “All these uncoordinated activities that are not part of a master plan, each an expression of lived reality, each extracting itself from control, from design.”

Book for Architects is a curated assemblage of nearly 500 photographs that runs in an hour long loop on two screens. The content is focused on the built environment of our earth from every possible angle, and the images range from street scenes, aerial views, interiors, facades, landscaping, architectural details—every way in which humans have altered the world. Some images appear alone, others are grouped according to subtle themes of intention, texture, color, form. Very few people are captured in these images, just our extremely random and often infuriating footprint. And no soundtrack accompanies this survey, leaving us to sit in the dark silence with nothing but stark, large screen projections of the strange world we have created for ourselves.

And those images are, as Tillmans has stated, daunting. Our built environment is irrational, lacking in coherence and logic, and often horrifically ugly. But Book for Architects is no jeremiad to idiocy and bad design. It has a “here’s the facts” objectivity, whether the image is the tangle of pipes and wires exploding out from a wall or a nightmarish sea of high rise buildings warehousing human beings in a cold, treeless world. Tillmans’ assertion that he took these photographs with a “kind eye” is the essential baseline for viewing this unique cavalcade of images. Working from a detached neutrality, Tillmans invites each of us to see our world differently. In thinking about my upcoming trip to China in a few weeks, I can already feel how my experience of that landscape will be altered thanks to Tillmans’ eye.

Book for Architects is at the Met through July 5.

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From Astronomy Picture of the Day:
Milky Way over Erupting Volcano (Photo: Sergio Montúfar)
Explanation: The view was worth the trip. Battling high winds, cold temperatures, and low oxygen, the trek to near the top of the volcano Santa Maria in Guatemala — while carrying sensitive camera equipment — was lonely and difficult. Once set up, though, the camera captured this breathtaking vista during the early morning hours of February 28. Visible on the ground are six volcanoes of the Central America Volcanic Arc, including Fuego, the Volcano of Fire, which is seen erupting in the distance. Visible in the sky, in separate exposures taken a few minutes later, are many stars much further in the distance, as well as the central band of our Milky Way Galaxy situated horizontally overhead.

After reading my previous post about hiddenness, Mike Dickman alerted me to an article by Kathryn Schulz in the New Yorker, Sight Unseen: The hows and whys of invisibility.

Hiddenness and invisibility are different of course. Schulz is less focused on the metaphysical realms of hiddenness that Jane Hirschfield explores in her book, Hiddenness, Uncertainty and Surprise: Three Generative Energies of Poetry (and discussed here.) Schulz, author of Being Wrong: Adventures in the Margin of Error, is a writer with an eye for the rational. She starts her piece lightheartedly by taking the counterposition—an actual 17th century magic spell believed to bring on invisibility (“Begin by acquiring the severed head of a man who has committed suicide…then bury the head, together with seven black beans, on a Wednesday morning before sunrise, and water the ground for seven days with fine brandy. On the eighth day, the beans will sprout, whereupon you must persuade a little girl to pick and shell them. Pop one into your mouth, and you will turn invisible.”) She quickly moves back to her more rational comfort zone however, discussing a new book by the very engaging science writer Philip Ball: Invisible: The Dangerous Allure of the Unseen. The article then delves into the darker psychological implications of invisibility through a smorgasbord of references: Harry Potter (that cape of course!), Dr. Who, science fiction writer Douglas Adams and the story from Plato‘s Republic of a shepherd who finds a ring that renders him invisible (and all the trouble it causes, like sleeping with the queen, murdering the king and claiming the kingdom for himself.) As Schulz points out, “Broadly speaking, there are two reasons for wanting to turn invisible: to get away from something or to get away with something.”

But while Schulz does unpack many of the darker psychological aspects of our natures, she does not leave the sublime behind. Her final paragraphs touch into the enormity that is The Great Invisible, floating in its immensity as we are:

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Almost everything around us is imperceptible, almost all the rest is maddeningly difficult to perceive, and what remains scarcely amounts to anything. Physicists estimate that less than five per cent of the known universe is visible—where “visible” means only that we could, theoretically, observe it, given the right instruments and sufficient physical proximity. A far smaller amount of the known universe, roughly 0.3 per cent, is dense enough to form stars. Perhaps 0.000001 per cent exists in earthlike planets. As for the part that exists in or near our own planet, the stuff that is visible to us in any literal sense: that is a decimal attenuating out almost to nothing, a speck of dust in the cosmic hinterlands.

Even here on earth, with our senses seemingly full to the brim, we see almost nothing of what matters. Molecules, microbes, cells, germs, genes, viruses, the interior of the planet, the depths of the ocean: none of that is visible to the naked eye. And, as David Hume noted, none of the causes controlling our world are visible under any conditions; we can see a fragment of the what of things, but nothing at all of the why. Gravity, electricity, magnetism, economic forces, the processes that sustain life as well as those that eventually end it—all this is invisible. We cannot even see the most important parts of our own selves: our thoughts, feelings, personalities, psyches, morals, minds, souls.

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And more remarkable still: from our own tiny bulwark against the invisible, we have looked into what we cannot look at—inferred its existence, and, to a stunning extent, figured out how it works. It’s hard to know which is more astonishing: that the visible sliver of the universe should betray the unseen structure of the entirety, or that the human mind, by studying that sliver, could begin to reconstruct all the rest.

We can do this because the invisible, although it keeps itself hidden, makes itself felt. I cannot see the people I love as I write this, but I can sense their pull, and I act as I do because of their existence. Taken literally, that is how the cosmos works. An invisible mass alters the orbit of a comet; dark energy affects the acceleration of a supernova; the earth’s magnetic field tugs on birds, butterflies, sea turtles, and the compasses of mariners. The whole realm of the visible is compelled by the invisible. Our planet, our solar system, our galaxy, our universe: all of it, all of us, are pushed, pulled, spun, shifted, set in motion, and held together by what we cannot see.

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