Jacques Derrida in his book, The Animal That Therefore I Am (2008, Fordham), discusses the expectation before him to talk about animals, but, instead of "talking about", and instead of describing animal as a generality, or even as an assortment of species, he describes an incident, a specific moment with a singular and real cat, with his cat. He described a moment of being naked in the presence of this cat, with the cat looking at him. He described a sense, of discomfort, even shame from this experience of having his naked body gazed upon by his cat. Derrida saw that he was not so much looking as he was being looked at, and not by some global category of "animal", but by an all-too-present, staring feline.
Derrida continues, always returning to the cat, his cat, the specific cat staring at his naked body. He reminds us that the experience of being looked upon by an animal is almost never the vantage point from which animals are talked about in both science and philosophy. Instead, the gaze is repeatedly and consistently from the human eyes upon the body of the animal. We, the humans (and in particular, we the philosophers, the scientists, and other institutional players) are the observers, and from the position of looking upon the animal we also find ourselves with the privilege of being the ones who name, who examine, and who interpret the animal. The scientific and philisophical eye never expects the animal to be examining the examiner.
As in Genesis, where the animals are brought before Adam, who then looks upon them, and from that vantage point provides names for them, and also, as in Genesis, where dominion, authority, power is granted to Adam and his descendents over animals, so in a modern world, the human gaze (and, more particularly, the institutionalized gaze) looks upon and gains mastery over animal worlds. Yet Derrida, breaking with all that overwhelming philosophical and scientific tradition, invites us to see the animal seeing us. He invites us to explore the intensity of being gazed upon by the animal.
I remember William Blake.
Few animals evoke the varied emotional experiences which come with being gazed upon more than the cat. With Blake, it is the eye of the tiger. As the cat looks at a human being, her gaze so frequently goes, not upon bodies, naked or otherwise, but rather, her eyes cut directly into human eyes. An intensity of stare, like heat from a fire, breaks right through those “windows of the soul”. Such a gaze can awaken awe, a sense of nakedness of spirit, it can demand us to respond, it can demand us to provide food or open a door, and, it can also instil a sense of dread. As fire penetrates and shatters, so the eyes of the cat.
Yet our language is dominantly about looking at the animal, not of the animal looking at us, and certainly not of the exchange of looking which so often occurs with the animals we share our lives with. Language itself is seen as that activity of looking which separates us from the animals. For we can put our observations into words, animals can’t. We can observe animals and name them -- it appears that animals cannot do the same thing.
However, what a cold and dry understanding of language this is! For I do not see language so much as a tool of objectivity, a tool for determining what is true, what is name-able, what is decipherable. Rather I tend to see language as something which emerges, both in evolution and in day-to-day life, within the midst of exchanges, in the midst of social connections and interactions. I imagine language as more akin to the actions of hands rather than the exchange of information. Language touches us, it moves us, and it strikes us, and these hand-like movements reverberate, they are communal, they never come from and never stay within just a two-person realm.
Words are certainly not the only way to touch and be touched, yet words are so often seen as that which distinguishes us from, makes us superior to all other animals. Our adamic heritage is still intact, even within secular realms – it is still often assumed that because we name, because we use words, we are therefore superior; because we use words to look down upon, to observe and evaluate, therefore we have dominion, we can control.
Yet the eyes of the cat tell us otherwise. For it is a challenge to experience the stare of a cat and not feel some intensity within the moment. I have heard stories of encounters with wild cougars – few events can strike terror into the heart more than finding one’s eyes caught in the stare of a wild, large feline. And, it's not just fear, but also the shame of being naked, the joy of being loved, the excitement of play... all such experiences can be evoked as we encounter the eyes of a cat.
.JPG)
Let us not forget, we are animals also. Do we look upon each other, as we so often do upon animals, with this unidirectional eye, this philosophical and scientific gaze? Do we look upon people, as with the other animals, with a one-way objectivity, from a viewpoint separate from, higher than, able to evaluate, interpret and establish names? Or, are we able to see ourselves being seen? Do we see the mutuality of our seeing? Do we see such complex and shared engagements? Do we find ourselves not only coming to connect and understand through communal exchanges, but also collaboratively creating new worlds wherein we can all in our diversities, people and animals, learn to live and thrive?
Call and response is clearly not simply a task of language, for the feline is a master at it. Jacques Derrida’s cat stares upon his naked body. We now see the animal, and to our intense surprise, we are not just looking at her, she is looking upon us, and she is insisting that we respond.
