Introduction

1According to the dominant Western paradigm of aesthetic reception, what distinguishes objects that stand in the modern tradition of the autonomous work of art from everyday objects is that they offer an aesthetic and intellectual experience exclusively through the privileged sense of sight. Correspondingly, theories of reception aesthetics in the fine arts, which seek to understand the ways in which works of art engage viewers in the process of meaning-making, traditionally focus on visual perception. However, contemporary works of art engage so-called “viewers” in increasingly multisensory ways that warrant not only a revision of the outdated and contentious privilege of the ocular in aesthetic reception, but correspondingly, a contemporary theory of reception aesthetics that considers multisensory forms of perception. Therefore, this article asks: how might the design of everyday objects – which engage users in visual as well as tactile, proprioceptive, auditory, olfactory, and gustatory ways – contribute to a theory of reception aesthetics that can illuminate and inform the ways in which sensory works of art engage audiences in the process of meaning-making?

2The reasons why the production of aesthetic experiences has been unduly limited to visual perception have been widely discussed in recent scholarly literature. By the mid-nineteenth century, a host of supremacist and colonialist ideologies had further ingrained the ancient association of the distal senses of sight and – to a lesser extent – hearing with reason and rationality, and the proximal senses of touch, taste, and smell, with bodily pleasures, irrationality, and unreliable sensory input. One notable early nineteenth-century racial hierarchy of the senses positioned “the European ‘eye-man’ at the top, followed by the Asian ‘ear-man,’ the Native American ‘nose-man,’ the Australian ‘tongue-man,’ and the African ‘skin-man’” (Lorenz Oken cited in Classen and Howes 2006, 206). Similarly, the proximal senses were associated with “a more embodied and multisensory ‘female’” perception of the world (Paul Stoller cited in Edwards, Gosden, and Phillip 2006, 7). Such associations have disembodied aesthetic experiences and shape works of art worldwide to this day – distinguishing them from everyday objects with which we engage in multisensory ways.

4Concomitantly, there has been a return in art theory to the pre-Enlightenment meaning of the word aesthetics, which comes from the ancient Greek aisthēsis, meaning “sense perception.” Scholars such as Nicolas Bourriaud (1998), Caroline Jones (2005), James Elkins (2008), Jacques Rancière (2011), Claire Bishop (2005, 2012), Jill Bennet (2012), and Nathaniel Stern (2013) have criticised the politics of spectatorship with their respective themes of “relational aesthetics,” “tyranny of the eye,” “fear of materiality,” “distribution of the sensible,” “heightened perception,” “practical aesthetics,” and “the implicit body.” In addition, scholars such as Francesca Bacci and David Melcher (2011), Ian Heywood (2017), Larry Shiner (2020), and David Howes (2020) have provided essential introductions to the emerging discourse on sensory art. However, despite much important work, scholars have not yet begun to explore the key question of how everyday objects and their processes of production and reception may shed fresh light on sensory works of art and their arguably comparable processes. In today’s ultra-designed society, understanding how the objects we make, use, surround ourselves with, and define ourselves through are transforming our perceptions and behaviours is key to understanding how art can promote societal change.

5In “The Work of Art and its Beholder: The Methodology of the Aesthetics of Reception,” the art historian Wolfgang Kemp describes the principles of visual representation with which artists form an offer of reception that invites the viewer to complete the meaning of a work of art (Kemp 1998 [1986], 186). Comparably, in The Design of Everyday Things, the cognitive scientist and usability engineer Donald Norman describes the principles of (multisensory) interaction with which designers form a discoverability that invites the user to execute the function of an everyday object (Norman 2013 [1988], 10). Given their mutual conviction that artefacts (are designed to) meet their functional ends by activating their respective agents (i.e., viewers and users) in specified ways, the two accounts allow us to draw parallels that render Norman’s principles potentially applicable, mutatis mutandis, to the analysis of works of art. Approximating “viewers” with “users,” and accordingly “artists” with “designers,” the principles of interaction can provide a fine-tooth comb with which to analyse how the design decisions embodied in interactive and sensory works of art engage audiences in the process of meaning-making and affect their perceptions and behaviours.

6Drawing on Kemp’s theory on the one hand and Norman’s theory on the other, I will propose a methodology for analysing the products of artistic production in design terms ­– namely, affordances, constraints, signifiers, feedback, mapping, and conceptual model. Subsequently, to demonstrate the applicability of the methodology to sensory works of art, I will offer a “keyhole” comparison of an everyday object and a canonical work of sensory art, whereby the interaction analysis of the former will enable a fresh aesthetic reading of the latter. Specifically, I will use a Rubik’s Cube to analyse Lygia Clark’s Critter (1960), which can be considered a modernist precursor of contemporary works of sensory art by decolonial artists such as Marepe, Bruguara, Walker, Yi, Vicuña, and others.

Kemp: The Methodology of Reception Aesthetics

9Kemp’s 1998 article, “The Work of Art and Its Beholder: The Methodology of the Aesthetic of Reception” (originally published in German in 1986), was one of the first attempts to extend reception aesthetics from the domain of literature to that of fine arts. In a key passage, in which Kemp seeks to open up reception aesthetics to include works of visual art, he argues:

Along with the aesthetics of reception, perception psychology shares the conviction that the work of art is based upon active completion by its beholder (see Gombrich’s ‘beholder’s share,’ for example) – that is to say that a dialogue occurs between the partners. […] reception aesthetics enacts its interpretive power in a work-oriented fashion. It is on perpetual lookout for the implicit beholder, for the function [i.e., role] of the beholder prescribed in the work of art. The fact that the work has been created ‘for somebody’ is not a novel insight, proffered by a small branch of art history, but the revelation of a constitutive moment in its creation from its very inception. Each work of art is addressed to someone; it works to solicit its ideal beholder. (Kemp 1998, 182–83)

The aesthetic objects are only accessible to both the beholder and the scholar under conditions that are mostly safeguarded by institutions and that, in themselves, require certain patterns of behaviour on the part of the recipient. Extrinsic conditions of access comprise, for example, the architectural surround and the corresponding ritual behaviour expected by the religious cult, the court, or the bourgeois institutions of art. (Kemp 1998, 185)

11Therefore, as Kemp puts it, “before the dialogue between work and beholder can even begin to transpire, both are already caught in prearranged interpretive spheres” (Kemp 1998, 184). For example, consider the modern gallery or so-called “white cube” space, wherein objects are displayed on plinths, inside vitrines, or behind ropes – means of display to which Kemp refers as context markers. Such architectural features contextualise the objects as “works of modern art” and imply the corresponding behaviour of exclusively visual perception expected by the exhibiting institutions.

12Moreover, in further contrast to perception psychology, which considers the process of perception/reception as a physiological one (“an exchange between the organ of perception [the eyes] and the form of the work”), for Kemp, the viewer “brings more than his or her open eyes to the perception/reception of the work of art” (Kemp 1998, 180). The viewer brings what Kemp calls their inner preconditions so that their response comprises more than mere “optical reactions” (Kemp 1998, 180). On this account, then, the artist must create a work that appeals to the viewer’s inner preconditions. Otherwise, a dialogue will not occur, and the work will remain incomplete.

14Following notable proponents of classic literary reception theory, Roman Ingarden and Wolfgang Iser, Kemp describes the aesthetics of indeterminacy, or the blanks of aesthetic representation, as the overarching and perhaps most engaging form of address that the work employs to form an offer of reception that activates the viewer to take part in its construction or prescribe their role in its completion (Kemp 1998, 188). For Kemp, both conceptualisations refer to the notion “that works of art are unfinished in themselves in order to be finished by the beholder” (Kemp 1998, 188). Quoting Iser, for Kemp, these “blanks”

are the unseen joints of the text, and as they mark off schemata and textual perspectives from one another, they simultaneously trigger acts of ideation on the reader’s part. Consequently, when the schemata and perspectives have been linked together, the blanks ‘disappear.’ (cited in Kemp 1998, 188)

15Whilst Kemp cites literary reception theory, he develops his theory in relation to works of visual art and, specifically, to the internal communication of pictorial representation (or “intrapainting communication”) (Kemp 1998, 186). Following Iser, for whom the unwritten parts are what invite the reader to read in-between the lines, as it were, thereby allowing them to actively participate in the construction of the text, Kemp considers “the invisible reverse side of each represented figure” or the “path that is cut off by the frame” as features that invite the viewer to fill in the blanks in their mind’s eye, thereby allowing them to actively participate in the formal and narrative construction of the painting (Kemp 1998, 188).

16For Kemp, and in keeping with classic literary reception theories, these blanks – what is left out – are often more essential to the intended reception of the work than what is explicitly depicted, and “this state of unfinishedness or indeterminacy is constructed and intentional” (Kemp 1998, 188). In this sense, we may think of works of art – and perhaps works of modern art in particular – as “formal puzzles” meant to “trigger acts of ideation” that complete them.

17Kemp’s attempt to extend reception aesthetics from the domain of literature to the fine arts is compelling insofar that it elucidates the ways in which paintings – and possibly, by extension, other works of visual art – solicit the aesthetic and intellectual agency of their audience through the sense of sight. Nevertheless, it falls short of elucidating the ways in which works of art solicit the aesthetic and intellectual agency of their audience through other sensory modalities. This is no surprise considering the dominant Western paradigm of aesthetic reception and its concomitant modern exhibition practices. Even so, another point of contention is Kemp’s appeal to the unpluralistic and somewhat elitist notion of the “ideal beholder,” which implies there is an ideal way in which to read the work and, therefore, invalidates subjective readings.

18That said, whilst Kemp’s account indeed proves highly controversial, when read against the grain, it can be understood as an attempt to analyse art in design terms and hence bring to light some of the problems and limits of such an approach, as well as its advantages. If so, Kemp’s account provides a useful means of exploring how theories of the design of everyday objects might contribute to a multisensory theory of reception aesthetics.

Norman: The Design of Everyday Objects

20(1) Affordances. The first principle of the six is the most popularised and, consequently, most commonly misconstrued. Narrowly understood as “actionable properties” or “implied uses,” Norman’s definition of affordances (following Gibson) is, in fact, a relational one: “an affordance is a relationship between the properties of an object and the capabilities of the agent” (Norman 2013, 11). For example, consider the childproof cap on a medicine bottle or how a handsaw affords sawing provided the user meets its minimal execution requirements, which include a basic understanding of the physics of cutting and an able hand. Simply put, an everyday object affords its function provided the user satisfies the relevant set of mental and physical requirements. Borrowing from Kemp’s terminology, I will refer to these requirements as “inner” and “outer” preconditions.

21(2) Signifiers. A design signifier, which should not be confused with a semiotic signifier, is “any perceivable indicator that communicates appropriate behaviour to a person” (Norman 2013, 14). Norman distinguishes affordances and signifiers by observing that “affordances determine what actions are possible […] signifiers communicate where [or how] the action should take place” (Norman 2013, 14). To use Norman’s example, a digital touch screen affords touching all over it, yet a graphic element, such as a button, signifies where exactly we should be touching the screen (Norman 2013, 13–14).

22Whilst some signifiers are graphic, direct, or spelled out, such as graphic buttons, arrows, or door signs labelled “push” and “pull,” some are simply the bare affordances in and of themselves (Norman 2013, 18). That is, when affordances are perceivable, they often play a dual role of both affording and signifying. By virtue of being technically crucial for the intended operation, a perceivable affordance may disclose the product’s mechanism of operation, which in turn instructs us how to set it in motion. Another example of Norman’s is that by affording its opening and closing, the handle on the door signifies how to open and close it (Norman 2013, 18). For this reason, the prescription of the user’s role is often readily derived from the visibility, and sometimes accentuation or externalisation, of certain elements of the design.

23Moreover, signifiers may emerge as the after-effect of certain decisions made by the designer or previous users: the faded buttons on a keypad lock disclose the series of digits used in a particular combination; the curved scuffs on the floor left by the opening and closing of a door indicate that it swings rather than slides open; and – to use yet another of Norman’s examples – the trail formed in the woods by past hikers indicates the best route (Norman 2013, 14). Although mostly incidental, such signifiers serve as helpful clues in communicating the best course of action.

25In a similar vein, cultural constraints “reduce the set of likely actions”; yet, in contrast to physical constraints, which disable possible actions, cultural constraints are “learned artificial restrictions on behaviour” (emphasis added) (Norman 2013, 76). Given how cultural constraints merely intimate dos and don’ts, for Norman, they are akin to social conventions or norms ­– unwritten rules we have learned are correct or acceptable and, therefore, govern our behaviour and interactions. He argues that:

Conventions are actually a form of cultural constraint, usually associated with how people behave. Some conventions determine what activities should be done; others prohibit or discourage actions. But in all cases, they provide those knowledgeable of the culture with powerful constraints on behaviour. (Norman 2013, 131)

26To illustrate the distinction between physical and cultural constraints, consider the modern exhibition space. The space may contain a host of physical constraints, such as glass vitrines and barrier ropes, which prohibit us from physically engaging with the art. Of course, these constraints, or “context markers,” have also come to act as signifiers (as in the way plinths do), preventing us from attempting to touch the exhibits even in the absence of a literal sign that spells out “do not touch the art.” However, for those knowledgeable of the culture, the cultural constraint on physically interacting with works of art – a prohibitive convention – is likely enough to enforce the “correct” behaviour within the exhibition space. Indeed, these particular physical and cultural constraints comprise what Kemp refers to as “extrinsic conditions of access/appearance.”

27(4) Feedback. This is the most interactive of the six principles as it responds to our actions in real time and communicates their results in a manner appropriate to the particular actions, be they correct or incorrect. Positive feedback confirms – or signifies – that we are acting correctly or that the system is working properly, so as to eliminate doubt. Negative feedback (or simply the lack of positive feedback in the case of poor design) indicates we should adjust our actions to yield the intended result or, alternatively, that there is a fault with the system.

28For example, when we press the desired floor button in a lift, the button may light up to indicate our request has been registered with the system, and a dial or a digital panel may display the floors as we go past them to indicate our location and the status of our request. Conversely, if the floor button does not light up or the floor indicator freezes, we know something is amiss.

29Feedback may be visual, such as flashing lights or animated graphics, but it may also be auditory, olfactory, or haptic: a click can indicate the floor button has been pressed, and a ping can indicate the lift doors are opening or closing; a burnt odour can indicate the lift requires maintenance; and the actual upward or downward movement of the lift indicates our request has been registered and is being processed, as it were.

30Feedback may also be natural rather than artificial: the burnt odour or the movement of the lift. Similarly, the mechanical sound that the lift doors make when shut lets us know whether they have been properly closed, thus providing natural feedback. Given its intrinsic character, natural negative feedback often follows failed or too subtle constraints, or the complete lack of appropriate constraints. For example, irregular or turbulent motions, and screeching, grating, or otherwise strident sounds (like the one the lift might make when there is a mechanical fault or parts that need oiling) indicate something is amiss and allow us to adjust our actions – or the system – accordingly.

31(5) Mapping. According to Norman, mapping refers to “the relationship between the elements of two sets of things” and is, therefore, a key principle in designing controls and displays (Norman 2013, 20–21). Some mappings use colour: blue files go in the blue cabinet, and green files in the green cabinet. Other mappings correspond to universal cultural conventions, which is why sliding a control up or turning a dial clockwise leads to an increase in intensity or amount, and sliding the control down or turning the dial anti-clockwise leads to a decrease (Norman 2013, 22). Mappings may also follow what Norman calls “spatial analogies,” which is why the buttons in the lift are arranged in ascending numerical order (Norman 2013, 22). Spatial analogies are critical in designing the layout of controls, as they ensure clear correspondence between the control and what is being controlled. For example, we turn the steering wheel to the left to make the car turn left. When mappings follow colour coding, cultural conventions, and spatial analogies, it is easier to understand and remember the correspondence, making the object easier to use. Moreover, like affordances and constraints, thoughtful mappings can provide clear signification in and of themselves. Such is the case with a pair of scissors: the sizes of the two holes correspond to the anatomy of our digits, thereby acting as a signifier indicating how to operate them (index and middle fingers in the elongated hole and a thumb in the opposing hole) (Norman 2013, 26).

32(6) Conceptual model. Norman’s sixth and final principle, often called a “mental model,” is “an explanation, usually highly simplified, of how something works. It doesn’t have to be complete or even accurate as long as it is useful” (Norman 2013, 25). Norman’s classic example is that of the computer “desktop,” which displays skeuomorphic files within folders on the computer screen (Norman 2013, 25). These graphic representations help the user, who typically knows little of the complex inner workings of software, gain a conceptual model of the system, which helps them make sense of the computer and explains how to interact with it.

33As Norman makes clear, whilst conceptual models may be provided through manuals, websites, advertisements, fellow users, or similar designs we have previously interacted with, they should ideally be inferable from the design itself (Norman 2013, 26). The easiest way for a user to acquire a conceptual model is from the perceived structure of the design – particularly from its affordances, signifiers, constraints, and mappings (Norman 2013, 26). As Norman observes, such is the case with basic hand tools, which “tend to make their critical parts sufficiently visible” so that their conceptual – or mental – models are relatively self-explanatory and straightforward (Norman 2013, 26).

34It is important to note that clear discoverability does not necessarily require the employment of all six principles of interaction. Their necessity depends on various factors, such as the complexity or novelty of the technology or design. Some simple objects – utensils, stationary, furniture – are so intuitive to understand and operate that they may not require the employment of all six principles. Nonetheless, there is significant overlap among the principles, which are often interconnected and work in concert so that, in many cases, the presence of one perforce entails the presence of another.

Clark’s Critter: An Analysis from the Twin Optics of Kemp and Norman

35I have suggested that comparing Kemp’s theory of reception aesthetics with Norman’s theory of design reveals some striking similarities. Primarily, the way the meaning of a work of art is completed by the viewer is comparable to the way the function of an everyday object is executed by the user. As we have seen, artists employ forms of address that appeal to viewers’ preconditions in order to form an offer of reception that will instruct viewers in completing the meanings of works of art. Comparably, designers employ principles of interaction that appeal to users’ preconditions in order to form discoverability that will instruct users in executing the functions of everyday objects. In short, both Kemp’s and Norman’s accounts are grounded in the conviction that artefacts are designed to fulfil their functions – be they utilitarian or non-utilitarian – via the agency of their respective agents (i.e., viewers and users), and both draw on perception psychology to elucidate the ways in which artefacts communicate with their intended agents in order to solicit their agency.

36Given this parallelism, it seems plausible that adopting the rationale behind the design of everyday objects, as conceptualised by Norman’s principles, to an analysis of an interactive and sensory work of art (i.e., reading the work of art as if it were an object of use), can foreground how the artist prescribes an intellectual role for their addressees through physical interaction. That is, simultaneously drawing on the two markedly dissimilar yet surprisingly congruent accounts can illuminate the ways in which a work of art solicits intellectual agency through multisensory perception, thus demonstrating that aesthetic experiences need not be based on exclusively visual perception and – as a corollary – that theories of design are germane to the “autonomous” work of art.

37Consider the participatory practice of Lygia Clark (1920–1988), a Brazilian artist associated with the Neo-Concretist movement of the second half of the twentieth century. According to curator Christine Macel, Clark has “redefined the work of art, and the experience and perception of a work of art,” consequently spearheading “an aesthetic revolution that dissolves the very idea of artwork, artist, and viewer” (Macel 2017). For Clark, aesthetic distinctions between subject and object, artist and audience, and sensory modalities are artificial. This view is evident in both her sculptural work, which grew increasingly participatory and multisensory throughout her career, and in her terminology, with which she referred to her audience as “participants” or “spectators-authors” and to her works as “relational objects,” “sensory objects,” and later “propositions” (Clark and Bois 1994, 85–109). From this perspective, Clark’s work can be seen as a precursor of twenty-first-century sensory art. Indeed, her work continues to inspire artists worldwide.

38I shall focus on Clark’s Critters (also known as Beasts or Bichos), perhaps her best-known series of works, created between 1960 and 1964. These foldable objects, capable of seemingly boundless permutations, have been described by art theorists Yve-Alain Bois and Rosalind Krauss as “geometrical ‘sculptures’ made of sheets of aluminium hinged together so that the ‘viewer’ is forced into an unpredictable wrestling match once he or she handles them” (Bois and Krauss 1997, 158). Note that Bois and Krauss enclose the words “sculptures” and “viewer” in quotation marks. In so doing, they not only allude to Clark’s own terminology with which she described her practice but also affirm her view that traditional and hegemonic conceptions of artistic production and reception are artificial and, therefore, restrictive of aesthetic experiences. The viewer, now a participant “wrestling” with the small dynamic sculptures, almost as in a game of Rubik’s Cube, performs a physically active role in completing them.

39Indeed, a closer comparison of a specific Critter, for example, Bicho Linear (fig. 1), to a Rubik’s Cube may help elucidate the Critters’ mechanism of operation and the ways in which they activate the audience to take part in their construction ­– inviting and guiding the participants’ physical interaction with them. The classic Rubik’s Cube (fig. 2), a three-dimensional combination puzzle designed by architect and sculptor Ernő Rubik in 1979, can likewise be arranged in seemingly endless permutations. It is solved when each of its six faces consists of a single solid colour.

40Each “cubelet” of the Rubik’s Cube is individually attached to an internal pivot at a slight distance from its neighbouring cubelets to afford their rotation. The resulting gaps between the cubelets make this affordance perceivable, thereby signifying the possible action of manipulating the Cube through rotary motions. This is comparable to how the hinges of a Critter both afford folding its constituent sheets and signify the possible action of manipulating the work through folding motions. Since Clark could have designed a foldable sculpture with concealed hinges, the fact of their perceivability – or indeed their accentuation – suggests that this signification is deliberate. This conjecture is also supported by the fact that Clark could have simply used readymade hinges and affixed them onto the aluminium sheets, but instead decided to forge the edges of the sheets into integral hinges, and thus – as Norman puts it – “incorporate the signifying part of the design into a cohesive experience” (Norman 2013, 19).

41However, whereas the Rubik’s Cube is a game played in the context of everyday life, the Critter is a work of art designed to be encountered on a plinth within the modern exhibition space – i.e., under a set of particular extrinsic conditions of access, which, among other things, comprise the customary prohibition on touch (a cultural constraint) and its customary context marker (the signification device of the plinth). Accordingly, it seems plausible that in order to solicit the audience’s physical agency, Clark felt the need to address this inner precondition by supplementing the hinges with another signifier of physical interaction that would reassure the audience that they are indeed allowed – and even encouraged – to handle the work. Arguably, for this reason, Clark chose to use aluminium, which is highly susceptible to finger marks compared with wood, plastic, or many other types of metal. The finger marks left behind by previous participants act as signifiers, helping extend an offer of physical reception. The more fingerprints Critter registers, the better it prescribes to the audience their physical role in its completion. This is similar to how the faded buttons of the keypad lock or the trail gradually formed in the woods signify the best course of action.

42Furthermore, whilst the hinged structure of a Critter affords folding, it simultaneously constrains other possible manipulations. That is, by affording and signifying folding, the hinges not only prescribe the correct action of folding but also disable and proscribe the incorrect action of – for example – wrenching or shaking the sheets. Just as the user of a Rubik’s Cube cannot change the position of a single cubelet but rather must rotate an entire “slice” of cubelets, folding one Critter sheet entails a change in the position of others. Similarly, just as each rotation of the Cube constrains subsequent rotations so that achieving six solid-colour faces requires rotating the slices in a certain order, each folding of the Critter constrains subsequent folds so that achieving a certain composition of the work requires folding the sheets in a certain order.

43However, this may be where the similarity between the two objects ends. Contrasting the mapping that guides these above manipulations and ensuing feedback highlights the essential difference between the two objects. In the Rubik’s Cube, the correct order in which to rotate sections of the Cube is signified by simple mapping: the correspondence between the set of six faces and a set of six colours. This mapping also provides the initial instruction: manipulate the Cube until each face consists of a single colour. Whilst this is by no means a simple task, the changing appearance of colours provides constant visual feedback as to the status of progress towards the solution. The greater the concentration of a single colour is on each of its six faces, the closer the Cube is to its final intended arrangement.

44This stands in stark contrast to Critter, whose initial appearance offers no clear instruction and whose changing appearance provides no clue as to the status of progress towards a final intended arrangement. This is not to say that the work offers no mapping or feedback, or that there is no correct and incorrect way to interact with it (as we have seen). Rather, it is only to say that there is no wrong way in which to fold the work. In terms of mapping, the hinged aluminium sheets all “map” onto one another in identical triangular silhouettes, thereby signifying the countless correct ways to fold them. In terms of feedback, their material properties provide haptic and auditory feedback to this effect. As long as the participant folds Critter’s sheets, it moves smoothly and quietly, emitting only soft, tinny sounds, thereby providing positive feedback. Yet, if the participant attempted to wrench or shake its sheets, it would put up some mechanical resistance and emit screeching or grating sounds, thereby providing negative feedback.

46The comparison to the Rubik’s Cube throws the design rationale behind Critter into sharp relief, and it helps explain how Critter works and how the participant interacts with it. That said, I am not suggesting that Critter takes the Rubik’s Cube as its conceptual model (not least because the design of the former predates that of the latter). The intricate Rubik’s Cube requires only a simple conceptual model readily inferable from its design. Similarly, despite the intricacy and abstract nature of its design, Critter’s artistic premise and technical mechanism are simple enough that it does not require any reference to existing designs. Recall Norman’s remark regarding hand tools, which “make their critical parts sufficiently visible” so that their conceptual models are relatively self-explanatory and straightforward. If anything, Critter, as its title suggests, takes inspiration from the dynamic and naturally occurring form of a living organism – i.e., the product of an evolutionary process rather than a design process. Perhaps an alternative way to conceive of a conceptual model in relation to Critter – a phenomenological investigation of sorts – is to think of Critter itself as providing a conceptual model for modern works of art more generally. Despite, or rather in virtue of its interactive nature, as a three-dimensional puzzle, Critter provides a highly simplified explanation – and therefore a deeper understanding of – how the “formal puzzles” presented by modern works of art actually operate. In inviting and guiding an open-ended process of subjective meaning-making or aesthetic construction through a deliberate indeterminacy of form, Critter illustrates the process of aesthetic reception. It provides a heuristic explanation of modern art’s modus operandi: the work is indeterminate by design in order to be completed by its audience.

47Through the various design decisions embodied in Clark’s work (its material properties, hinges, and feedback that these provide), the participant is prescribed physical interaction. Nevertheless, this physical interaction ultimately leads the participant to perform a distinctly intellectual role that completes the work. As Macel puts it, “the viewer then becomes an author, or rather, the agent of a perception defined by the act” (Macel). On the one hand, this approach is in keeping with traditional fine art theories of reception aesthetics such as Kemp’s, according to which the blanks or the indeterminacy of form are designed to enable the viewer to take an active intellectual role in the aesthetic construction or completion of the work. On the other hand, by affording an aesthetic and intellectual experience based on multisensory perception, Clark’s work demonstrates that aesthetic and intellectual agency can be solicited through more than mere visual perception.

Conclusion

48Taken together, Clark’s and the more recent artistic phenomenological investigations hosted in the Turbine Hall seem to mark a radical shift in the fine art practice: from static and non-interactive objects that afford an aesthetic experience through visual perception towards dynamic and interactive works that afford an aesthetic and intellectual experience through multisensory perception. In so doing, they also seem to mark an increasing need for a fully-fledged multisensory theory of reception aesthetics that can illuminate and inform the ways in which they engage audiences in the process of meaning-making.

49Whilst this is a call for further work in the area, I hope to have demonstrated that everyday objects and theories of their design have much to contribute to a multisensory theory of reception aesthetics. Namely, I hope that in negotiating the viewer/user and artist/designer binaries, and subsequently analysing Critter as a “designed object,” I have demonstrated how a design perspective may help challenge the notion of disembodied spectatorship, re-embody aesthetic experiences, and ultimately help decolonise and degender art and its anachronistic yet still-pervasive visualist paradigm of aesthetic perception/reception.