Michael Witte

“Marcel Duchamp and the Lyotardian Sublime”

(Spring 2016)

 

The philosopher Jean-François Lyotard opens his book on Marcel Duchamp with a few objections regarding the task of interpreting the artist’s work.¹ He lays out these objections by running through a hypothetical reading of Duchamp’s final work, Étant donnés. He argues that the problem for interpretation results from the installation’s ambiguous staging: the fact that the nude (“the bride”) is given without context. For whatever Lyotard can say, he recognizes immediately that this nude cannot simply be a rehearsal of the academic tradition. Its pose (the “spread-eagle”) denotes not the purity of a venus but an obscenity, thrust before its spectator in violent confrontation. Yet, for Lyotard, it is precisely through a theoretical distance that the work (or any, for that matter) begs to be known. Context (com-, together; –texere, to weave) is that which joins together certain isolated variables for the purpose of their orientation. The trouble is for our lack of isolating another variable. With this in mind, Lyotard sets out to gain some leverage, to stake out what is “true” of the scene, what can be said of it, of its construction. He instantiates distance via an abstraction of the nude through an inversion of the image of Étant donnés. He shows us one of Duchamp’s preliminary sketches for the installation and reproduces this image upside down in the text. “Unsticking” the nude arbitrarily from its permanent spatial orientation, Lyotard attempts to render back the “figural” in Duchamp’s work. We understand the figural here as opposed to the “figurative,” that which has been “given” by the realism of Duchamp’s eventual finished product, the “stuck” perspective of the installation’s view. The figural may appear for Lyotard only after an acknowledgment of the givens of the situation, only after a particular orientation has already been staged.

To highlight the relevance of this distinction, one might allude to the famous example of the anamorphic skull of Hans Holbein’s The Ambassadors, first registered innocuously as an object in the scene before the attentive viewer realizes that this figure instead is a ‘stain’ leading to another, hidden dimension. The disjunction produced by this anamorphosis renders the moral attitude of the work: the memento mori embedded in the flattened perspective of Holbein’s subject. Rather, Duchamp’s peep show represses the tricks of representation and gives only its ambiguous product. Could it be the final shot of a snuff film? A violent crime of passion, rendering in its aftermath a female corpse? Or, as Lyotard argues, does the “cunt“ of the victim, the orifice towards which the spectator’s eye aligns, be, as it was for Courbet, a play on the idea of the origins of sight? Are the “cunt” and the “eye,” in other words, synonymous organs for rendering what is “given“ (“Holes onto a hole”)? According to Lyotard, Duchamp’s installation exhibits the rhyming of these two holes – the orifice with which one sees and the orifice which captures our sight – with no recourse to answer the work’s question definitively. The spectator is given simply an addressor (the “cunt”) and an addressee (the “eye”), but no third term with which to situate the address. Thus once Lyotard entertains the notion of flipping Duchamp’s sketch to re-engage the figural, he sees within this new image exactly what he had expected. Within the image of the nude is the silhouetted image of the spectator, his profile as he looks through the Spanish door: “The figure is of course looking up, unlike the cunt; he’s its opposite partner, like the spectator of Étant donnés.” This attempt to develop a third term, thus, falters at the origins of sight, and Lyotard is left with the very anti-narrative staging that was presented in the first place. Lyotard, furthermore, undermines this tentative interpretive method, remarking that Étant donnés cannot be flipped, i.e. cannot be explained: “It thinks it shows and explains what’s to be taken from this cunt [….] You have inverted the image of the woman, how clever [….] We see, we get it… And yet, you’re still behind your door, looking at/like a cunt” (TD, 8). Duchamp’s installation, restricting the view as it does, restricts likewise that which exhibits the limitations of language (the “mobile eye” that continually defies and re-organizes its knowledge of the referent). It presents, in other words, a “phrase,” taken out of context, and towards which no reliable further phrases can be effectively conditioned.

In an argument explaining the passage from the “retinal” to the “vulvular,” enacted by Lyotard’s attempt at an embodied reading of Étant donnés through the curious position of the spectator, the theorist Rosalind Krauss outlines likewise the connection between this moment and the aesthetic experience described in Immanuel Kant’s Analytic of the Beautiful: “When Kant displaced the space of beauty from the empirical realm to the wholly subjective one, declaring taste a function of a judgment stripped of concepts, he nonetheless preserved the public dimension of this subjectivity by decreeing that such judgments are necessarily, categorically universal. Their very logic is that they are communicable, sharable, a function of the concept of the ’universal voice.’ Aesthetic experience’s pleasure, diverted from the exercise of desire, is channeled precisely into a reflection on the possibility of universal communicability.”² Following her argument, it is when this cognitive subject is located in the actual space of the gallery, befuddled by the work and experiencing himself being seen as such by other museum patrons, that the visual is rendered carnally: desire is re-inscribed in the body of the spectator caught in the act of his or her (intended) aesthetic encounter. The embarrassment experienced by the spectator only furthermore mirrors the embarrassment of the critic: if the spectator is turned back into this “carnally thickened three dimensional being” within the architecture of the museum space (whose history, in line with the aesthetic, is that of dis-incarnating the spectator), it is the erudition of the critic that comes under attack by this very means. “Either he’s depriving us of air, or else he’s imposing an air on us. We’re playing professors because Monsieur Marcel hasn’t professed anything, or hardly anything. He’s irksome, but aside from that you mustn’t think you’ve won just because you’ve discovered that. Better not bother with him” (TD, 8).

In his collection Kant after Duchamp, Thierry DeDuve comments on the predicament of the critic tasked with the effort to “translate” Duchamp’s installation into commentary for the benefit of the public. This “public,” however, becomes, through the peephole, a site of dispersal. “The relations between object and public as Duchamp imagines them, produces and declares them, give rise neither to a community of viewers nor to a collection of objects. The work’s only public status is a dispersal of privacies.”³ Yet Lyotard insists that the didactics of the critic will not be dissuaded by these little setbacks. As DeDuve notes, in especially Lyotardian language, the role of the art critic post-Marcel Duchamp is to re-write the “differend,” the irresolvable difference at the heart of the work, into the language of tradition. Lyotard turns therefore to the task of description, to “consider attentively the body of the Woman in Étant donnés” to show precisely where this sublimated difference occurs in relation to the heritage of the academic nude, and the tradition of the museum (TD, 9). The critic is returned to his old theoretical tools, to a description of the figural aspects of the bride: “He will notice that the right breast and shoulder are those of a man, and especially that between the vulva and the right of the groin, a swelling suggests the birth of a scrotum. If he masks one side at a time, he’ll be convinced that the right half of the body is male, the left half female” (TD, 9-10). As DeDuve explains, Kant’s sensus communis – the “shared substrate of humanity” composed not by the particularities of peculiar individual tastes but by the faculty of taste itself, also that which conforms the uniform architecture and viewing practices of nineteenth- and twentieth-century art museums – would indeed be an “androgynous” phenomenon. A figure representing this faculty, following the logic of the aesthetic, would have to sublimate sexual difference into a singularly and universally sexed genitalia. Yet it is precisely here that the critical role of the aesthete – to make exponible the indemonstrable ideas of art, to articulate its aesthetic purity – stumbles on the impossibilities of this procedure. For the above description, in its attempt to neuter Duchamp’s bride, instead exposes a deeper pathological desire at the heart of this mode of criticism: that is, to be both indifferent and indispensable to the artwork. The critic’s commentary, Lyotard says, “shows what wouldn’t have been seen without him, so he adds his words to the visible” (TD, 10).

The kind of discourse required for formal analysis, Lyotard writes, always “slips away” in confrontation with its source. “Perhaps there isn’t such a thing as the visible at all. Merely phrases. The work of this sir-and-madam [Marcel and his alter ego] resides solely in scribblings on bits of paper in the Boxes, ingenious projects in the style of Leonardo, but maybe a Leonardo who is sick and tired of glue?” (TD, 10). Lyotard’s remarks on the slippery nature of commentary suggests the modus operandi of Duchamp’s work: the rendering of a visual “thickness” that both defies and yearns to be spoken (as Lyotard says, “the incommensurable brought back into commentary”). As such, Lyotard’s task as critic would be to examine the work as it emanates in this space between description and its defiance; but described in terms not of the “purely optical” or “retinal,” or that which can only be seen. For Duchamp, as for Lyotard, the work never escapes the interpretive trap. It exists as a name, residing in and between language: between an expressive discourse composed of signs and the sign itself, an irreducibly singular graphic mark (the “given” of Étant donnés). The difference between the semantic potential of a figure and the discourse that reifies this potential into a specific exchangeable unit accounts for what Lyotard terms the “hinge,” the modality for connecting, without explaining away, the incongruities that exist within and between particular works, between the texts and intertexts of Duchamp’s “phrases,” “scribblings,” etc. “A hinge in logic,” Lyotard explains, “would be a paradoxical operator, its minimum property would be to stand in the way of one of the great operators of congruence, for example implication (if p, then q), which is the very serious logical causality” (TD, 128). In Lyotard’s estimate, the hinge, as the paradoxical operator, would be the inclusive disjunction of “and/or,” from which emerges Duchamp’s signature, Monsieur Marcel and/or Mademoiselle Rrose. Duchamp’s refusal to sublimate his bi-gendered identity under the brute strength of the artist’s male form-giving ego mirrors his disposition towards what Lyotard calls “sententiousness“ ( … Duchamp’s refusal to glue together his artistic scribblings). The non-sublimation of the “and/or“ hinge is therefore that which endangers the coherence of the artist’s authority, whose integrity as the addressor of meaningful phrases secures the viability for their successful communication. Lyotard asks, apropos the hinge: “If man, then non-woman; but: if man and/or woman, what then? The and/or hinge appears to affirm the symmetry and the incongruence of the two terms” (TD, 128). For Lyotard, this hinge is the operator that appears and re-appears throughout the works—as reversals, mirrors and obstructions.

Lyotard’s book on Duchamp deals primarily with the principle works, the Large Glass and Étant donnés, and the ‘hinge’ that connects the two in Duchamp’s larger conceptual edifice. Les transformateurs, published in 1977, is the first thing that Lyotard writes following the publication of L’Economie libidinale, three years earlier, and Discours, Figure two years prior to that. In L’Economie libidinale, Lyotard erects a systematic philosophy based in part on a vocabulary set forth by the philosopher Klossowski, who, in his literature and his writings on Nietzsche, produced a philosophy of the simulacrum (what Lyotard refers to as a ‘kinetic problematic,’ wherein the simulacra is conceived primarily not as representation, but as enigma: ‘the paradoxical product of the disorder of the drives, as a composite of decompositions’). For Lyotard’s libidinal economy, the meeting of these different drives culminates in an intensity, called by a name and referred to as an event. The event, the tensor, the simulacrum – these are all terms employed by Lyotard to signify the meeting and intermingling of libidinal impulses: with the tensor signifying this vector of impulses, the event signifying their reification under a single name (a figure or a phrase). As Lyotard explains, “[the name] will render compatible a multitude of incompossible propositions concerning the same subject of the statement.” For Lyotard’s reading of Duchamp, this philosophy is put to work regarding the authorial hinge “Marcel and/or Rrose” and its reduplication in the principle works: where the name of the “woman stripped bare” emerges as the subject of both Étant donnés and the Large Glass, as the tensor that makes compatible the incompossible propositions projected in/between the works themselves (the conceptual hinge of “Large Glass and/or Étant donnés”) and the notes provided by Duchamp, which, rather than existing for the sake of the works’ clarification, only secure their “sententiousness” (the Green Box of 1934 and the installation notes of Approximation). According to Lyotard, the task of the critic emerges here as the “devil’s work,” parodying the impossible task of reconciling such terms: “The totality is missing = there is no god to conciliate = all conciliation can be present only in its impossibility, that is, parodied = this is the devil’s work.”⁴ Confronted with Duchamp’s evasions, the discourse of the critic can never expel the figural in the crisis for theoretical closure: “Discourse finds itself endowed with an enigmatic thickness. The signifiers come forward and seem to be hiding something, something that is not their “signified” (for the latter, on the contrary, is grasped), but rather a meaning held back beyond their screen.”⁵

Following Lyotard’s analysis of the hinge, the projection of the ‘event’ considered in the Large Glass, an event marked by Duchamp according to the title, “La mariée mise à nu par ses célibataires, même,” is divided in two by a median bar of glass, a horizontal line fixed between two tableaux. This hinge, continues Lyotard, operates “like the hinge of a mirror,” both connecting and separating the bachelor workshop of the lower panel with and from the virtual space of the bride-machine in the panel above. Yet the spatial symmetry of the two panels is rendered in a perspectival incongruity, the cubist three-dimensionality of the bride-machine versus the Italian perspective of the bachelor workshop: “The two virtual spaces of the top and the bottom are in a relation of incongruence with one another like two gloves. Bride and Bachelors occupy similar and non-superimposable spaces, unless you bring in a meta-operator (which would be four-dimensional)” (TD, 35). Where the Large Glass is described as a ‘delay’ – the rendering-visible of a heterogenous intensity prior to its moment of dissimulation – Étant donnés exists as the three-dimensional model for this very activity, albeit “too late,” the event having already taken place, that is, “given.” As Lyotard writes, “The stripping-naked by itself lasts but an instant…, which is projected according to two incongruent but symmetrical temporalities in the two great works: the time of the Large Glass is that of a stripping naked not yet done; the time of Étant donnés is that of a stripping naked already done” (TD, 36). According to Lyotard, the ascetic, critical formulation of the Large Glass passes to the popular/pornographic/pagan formulation of Étant donnés, but in no ordinary measure. Duchamp’s notes regarding the Large Glass relate a narration (the bride’s ‘stripping-bare’) to be disfigured (and “disfigurated”) by the depiction of the various mechanical linkages that cannot add up. The bachelor machine, unable to connect with the bride, who exists in an ulterior dimension, operates perpetually in the delay of an unfulfilled narrative desire. This “story” is transferred to the visible scene of the last work, purged of all abstraction by means of the highly detailed, highly controlled plans of the Approximation, culminating in what would be, in Lyotard’s words, an ‘insolently figurative scene’ – a restriction of the field of vision. “If a story is told here,” writes Lyotard, “it is no longer to the reader; it is to the voyeur. The story is no longer written; it is up to him to tell it to himself; the story is virtual” (TD, 159).

In the early pages of Les Transformateurs, the aim is to release the figural from Étant donnés via the pun, the rhyming of the eye and the orifice. Duchamp’s puns are, of course, a well documented enigma. Lyotard quotes Breton on the logic of Duchamp’s puns. According to Breton, the extra-linguistic dimension of a pun’s utterance riffs on the endurance of the sensible within the significant phrase: “It derives itself,” Breton says, “from a ridiculous formal justification.”⁶ Where the critic sees fortuitous instances of language in the image, Breton observes the pun, the figural, within the “thickness” of Duchamp’s speech, linguistic disruptions “whose principle is to be found in sensory mobility.”⁷ The Large Glass, qua figural, is to be understood as a paraphrase of this permutational mobility: an inter-dimensional geometry precluded by the non-existent apparition of a four-dimensional meta-operator. “Not only does permutation,” writes Lyotard, “rely on assonances which language considers fortuitous, and which it enjoins every reasonable interlocutor to neglect in favor of signification […] but permutation repeats, in its very own chiasma, the constitutive figure of figures” (DF, 285).

For Lyotard, the incommensurability played out in the hinge ‘Glass and/or Given’ is the product of an absolute retortion, antitheses without the potential for synthesis. In Étant donnés, understood as an outcome of the ‘delay’ of the Glass, this impossible scheme culminates as the problem of the living tableau (the tableau vivant), against which the voyeur, gazing at the nude from his side of the ‘bachelor limit’ (the Spanish door) is incapable of seeing beyond the dissimulating partition that fixes his view. The physiognomy of the bride, whose communicative legibility remains indeterminate based on the logic of her ambiguous gesture, gains a theoretical momentum only once the solecism of her gesture is rendered permanent in the form of the tableau: a distended phrasing whose suspension in time relates similarly to the spatial articulation of the “acinematic apparition” of the Large Glass. And this is likewise, the connection to be made with the desire of the modern masters in relation to their inherited tradition of the academic nude. As Klossowski points out, in his criticism of the tradition, “The modern masters, who have retained the traditional view of the Nude, in fact observe style in nature, an identity between nature and style. But in their representation of the nude woman—whether as sleeper, bather, or idle woman—it is always the feeling of her own nudity which inevitably culminates in the poise of her head or in a facial expression. This conscious feeling in the woman of her own nudity, expressed by the masters through some game or other of physiognomy, situates the ’animal’ moment of her bodily presence as the pictorial motif. Here we approach a set of mental operations, a play of mirrors, without which the traditional Nude, the Nude subject, could never have become explicit in painting.”⁸ To Lyotard’s critique of the drives in Freud’s project (the principle argument that forms the basis for his L’Economie libidinale and the earlier Discours, figure), it suffices to say that ‘reality’ “is only ever a sector of the imaginary field which we have accepted to renounce, and from which we have accepted to withdraw our phantasms of desire.” The image, the phantasmatic object (the nude), is given first; it correlates to the vision of the subject; the gesture is negated, and hence the image is understood as either grammatical (as representative of discourse) or ungrammatical (relentlessly figural). “Thus representation,” writes Lyotard, “is essential to this phantasmatic; that is, it is essential that the spectator be offered instances of identification, recognizable forms, all in all, matter for the memory: for it is at the price […] of going beyond this and disfiguring the order of propagation that the intense emotion is felt.” This price paid (‘disfiguring the order of propagation’) is the dissolution of the subject, of the productive self, and the sudden emergence of a new “unproductive” subject: to see the bride of the Large Glass frozen in the midst of her “cinematic blossoming.”

In his short essay on cinema (“L’Acinema,” published 1978), Lyotard notes that the price of this dissipation, and its resultant creation of a new subject, “is the same price that the cinema should pay if it goes to the first of its extremes, immobilization: because this latter […] means that it would be necessary to endlessly undo the conventional synthesis that normally all cinematographic movements proliferate.”⁹ In the context of Lyotard’s early writings, “L’Acinema” presents a theory tied to his larger project of libidinal economy (as well as to the idea of the “cinematic,” as it emerges in his reading of Duchamp’s Large Glass). Lyotard’s project of “acinema” (built around Lyotard’s pun la cinema, i.e. a feminine or feminized cinema) is a project to render, against the ravages of institutional signification, an alternative political economy for the preservation of impulsive life. If the classical model produces, through its conventions of framing and perspective, a ‘glorious body’ in the form of a visual or cinematic language, acinema retrieves its libido in the form of disruption. The notion that a medium’s structure prefigures narrative content is undermined, from the seat of the spectator, by the fact that content is, again and again, eternally present. The difference thus for Lyotard is that the first shot of the sequence (understood as the phantasm) eternally recurs, figuratively speaking. Its aesthetic is not simply that of a visual practice alternative to the classical visual paradigm; its aesthetic is that of vision itself, a vision that doubles and re-doubles and never, in fact, possesses what it seeks. Beyond the tragic dissolution of an ideal spectator, what emerges for Lyotard is the place of a creator who sees the image freed from its conventional burdens. Narrative is thus known as that which offers the image (and the impulses) fictitious goals and meanings. Here Duchamp provides the perfect analogy via the word play of his Anemic Cinema, where the pure opticality of the spinning rotoreliefs are interrupted by the brief introduction of various, and largely unreadable, sexual puns. The pulsions of the rotoreliefs are transposed by the figural thickness of Duchamp’s non-sequiturs, delivering the spectator from the “visual thickness” of the rotorelief to the “carnal thickness” of his desire. This revelation, however, is not the end of fictions once and for all, a total de-mystification. “If we de-mystify,” says Klossowski, “it is to mystify more thoroughly.”¹⁰ What becomes revealed, after conventional narratives are unsettled, is a choice: either to produce simulacra in conformity to the constraints of communication or to produce them via the obsessional constraints of perversion. This choice, for Lyotard, marks the place of the artist. The exchange of images according to the latter model, the perverse cinema, represents a ‘fraudulent exchange,’ a rupturist form marked by the intensities of the voyeur, who, in his brooding over the distended image, denounces his own inadequacy to reproduce such a distension in thought ( … to again reiterate the problematic of Lyotard’s critic).

At this point, it becomes possible to understand what is at stake when Lyotard refers to the Glass, following Duchamp’s own description, as a “film,” and the implication for what this description might hold for Étant donnés, understood as the tableau for this apparently acinematic exercise: “The Glass, being the film, lets us see the conditions of impression that reign on the inside of the optical box; Étant donnés, being this box regulated as to its field, shows the external objects that appear there to be seen from its inside (dark chamber)” (TD, 170). “What the viewer sees on the Glass,” writes Lyotard, “is the eye and even the brain in the process of composing its objects, the images of these objects impressing the retina and the cortex according to laws of deformation, which are their own and that organize the glass partition. But when the voyeur puts his eyes in the holes of the Spanish gate, he seems to have only an ‘ordinary perception’ of the object he sees” (TD, 169-170). Where the Glass, for Lyotard, represents the apparitions that haunt the appearance of the event, Étant donnés renders a strict, one-sided view of the scene. If, for instance, the vanishing point of the latter is marked, as Lyotard suggests, by the vulva of the last nude, this orifice represents not the object of the voyeur’s vision, but rather its subject. Recalling Lyotard’s hypothetical rendition, we do not need to rely on a vertical flip of the image to see the clever visual pun this scene might induce. What Duchamp’s voyeur sees is not so much the nude, this object that he or she desires; rather, when he takes his place at the door, conscious of this public space around him, the institutional space of the museum and the codes of viewership that it implies, he sees himself seeing: “When these eyes think they see the vulva, they are in fact seeing themselves.”

In Lyotard’s commentary on the Kantian sublime, the argument takes similar form to his earlier thoughts on the libidinal. Kant’s description of a “sublime enthusiasm” is that which correlates the attitude of the critic who, presented with something as sententious as Duchamp’s Étant donnés, carries on with his impossible task of representing it. “Enthusiasm is a modality of sublime feeling,” he says: “The imagination tries to furnish a direct, sensual presentation of an idea of reason (for the totality is the object of an idea, for example, the totality of practical, rational beings), but it does not succeed and thus experiences its impotence” (DF, 238). It must be noted, however, that Lyotard’s employment of the sublime is fundamentally different from that of Kant, despite his reliance to Kant’s formulation, in the sense that Kant’s sublime in the end conforms the infinitely large or the infinitely powerful to man’s reason. “But it discovers at the same time its destination, which is to realize its agreement with ideas of reason through an appropriate presentation. It results from this blocked relation that instead of experiencing a feeling of the object, one experiences when confronted with this object a feeling ’for the idea of humanity in us as subjects’” (DF, 238). For Kant, in other words, the sublime feeling occurs in the conformity of the drive to know, regardless of the challenge with which the subject is presented. Rather than identifying sublime enthusiasm with the enduring capacity of the critic’s mind, or likewise, the capacities of the mechanical apparatus to subsume every image, Lyotard understands such enthusiasm as entailing cognition’s limited relationship to the event: the “hidden source” at the root of the critic’s maniacal obsession to know. The result is, of course, rendered into language as an impasse. The “idea” is that which Lyotard associates with his own feelings of impotence before the orifice of the bride: that is, the inability to conceptualize beyond the fundamentally negative existence of his own carnal desire to know. “You thought you had wanted to see that, but you notice that you no longer want to think so” (TD, 5). To efface desire, according to Kant, is to know the object for what it is. Gazing into the orifice with feigned indifference, as Lyotard says, one finds in this chasm, in this impenetrable hole, the trace of his own sight: “When these eyes think they see the vulva, they are seeing themselves, concludes Lyotard: “a cunt is he who sees.” (TD, 175).

Works Cited

Breton, André. Les manifestes du surréalisme. Paris: Sagittare, 1946.

de Duve, Thierry. Kant After Duchamp. Cambridge: MIT Press, 1998.

Klossowski, Pierre. La décadence du nu. London: Black Dog Publishing, 2002.

—. Nietzsche et le cercle vicieux. Paris: Mercure, 1969.

Krauss, Rosalind. “Where’s Poppa?” The Definitively Unfinished Marcel Duchamp, ed. Thierry de Duve. Halifax: Nova Scotia College of Art and Design; Cambridge: MIT Press, 1993.

Lyotard, Jean-François. “Acinema.” Narrative, Apparatus, Ideology. ed. Philip Rosen. NY: Columbia University Press, 1986.

—. Discourse, Figure. Trans. Anthony Hudek, Mary Lydon. U. of Minnesota Press, 2011.

—. Des dispositifs pulsionnels. Paris: Galilée, 1994.

—. Trans/formers Duchamp. trans. Ian McCleod. Venice, CA: Lapis Press, 1990.

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Michael Witte (UCSD) is an art historian, theorist, and translator. His research lies at the intersection of literature and the visual arts, juxtaposing the histories of aesthetic theory with the development of late 19th and 20th century modernisms.

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