The Touch of Art

Every work of art creates a relation. But this relation does not arise from interpretation, understanding, or aesthetic enjoyment. It is simply present – or it is not. And this presence can be called touch.

Here, "touch" does not refer to a physical experience. It is not a tactile sensation or a metaphor. It is the moment when the artwork, in some way, reaches us and creates an in-between space. A space in which the artwork and the viewer are no longer separate, and something happens. A subtle shift, an inner resonance.

So the most important question is: Did the touch happen? And if it didn’t – why not?

This approach does not speak of art as an object, but of the relation that can exist between the artwork and Being. Because every true work carries a presence that either reaches across – or doesn’t.

This is why we introduce two fundamental concepts that describe the inner movement of every genuine work:

Tactus: touch, when the artwork opens and a connection emerges.

Retractus: withdrawal, when the artwork does not open but remains distant.

These are not opposites. They are not better or worse, not success or failure. They are two phases of movement, like inhalation and exhalation, light and shadow, word and silence.

The artwork does not always seek to touch. Sometimes it is simply there – watching. And this witnessing presence can mean more than a direct connection.

This is what we call Retractus – when touch does not occur, yet the possibility of it still resonates.

The philosophy of touch begins from a quiet question:

Tactus happens when something from the work – without any intention or message – reaches the other.

It occurs in a moment when the viewer is no longer just "looking" at the artwork, but a shared space arises between them.

This connection often precedes thought. It may feel like a pause, a subtle shift, a short silence. When this happens, the artwork is no longer an object – it becomes an event.

There are times when the artwork remains closed. It is present, but does not cross over. This is not a flaw – it is another form of presence: Retractus.

Retractus means that the work holds itself back. It does not seek to act. It does not speak or move. It simply remains – distant.

This can be unsettling to the viewer. They seek something, and receive no answer. But if they stay, if they remain attentive, they may notice: this silence also means something. This distance is a kind of attention.

Retractus is restraint. The work chooses not to open. And in this choice, there is a kind of dignity. This withdrawal sometimes leaves a deeper imprint than a work that reaches out too soon.

Touch is movement. A shifting of closeness and distance, of opening and closing. A work may touch, then withdraw. These gestures are not separate – they belong together.

Tactus calls. Retractus listens. Both are part of the artwork's presence. And often, the most important experiences happen on the edge between the two. When we cannot tell whether the work is near or far – but something is happening nonetheless.

This threshold is where the work is truly present. Not because it "means" something – but because it is. Because it can be felt.

Tactus and Retractus cannot be separated. Every openness holds the possibility of closure. And every withdrawal still vibrates with the possibility of connection.

Touch does not depend on medium or technique. It can appear in a painting or photograph, in music or poetry. Touch is a question of presence.

A photograph touches when it is truly there. A poem touches when it suddenly breaks off. A sound touches when it goes silent. A movement touches when it happens – or precisely when it doesn’t.

This kind of touch occurs when the artwork exceeds its form – and something open meets the other within it.

Touch is not an aesthetic concept. It is not a matter of style or genre. It is the inner movement pulsing behind every true work. When we recognize it – the encounter can happen.

A true work is present. And sometimes – it does not seek to happen. It does not seek closeness. It does not seek to speak. It simply remains silent.

Sometimes, the artwork quietly retreats. This is not a failure. Not a lack. This too is presence – only in a different form.

The forms remain. The outlines of presence are visible. But there is no connection. And yet: this absence is not empty, but a silence full of attention. In distance, possibility still lives. In the unfulfilled touch, Retractus continues to resonate. Like a word almost spoken. Like a gaze that looked – and then turned away.

The deepest power of the work lies in the way it is there. And sometimes, that is simply this:

a stillness,

a form,

a silence.

Here the philosophy of touch turns inward. It completes itself in distance rather than nearness. In withdrawal rather than fulfillment.

Tactus and Retractus are not opposites. They are forms of presence that only make sense together. Like light and shadow, they complete each other.

A work sometimes becomes true because it touches – sometimes because it withdraws. Because it is able to fall silent – without ceasing to be present.

And in this silence – in this missing touch – something may remain even more deeply than in the most beautiful moment.

This text ends here. But the question it raises cannot be closed.

Because touch – or withdrawal – is always an answer to attention, to presence.

And attention – never ends.