Out of what the West now terms contemporary art, some would construct the synthesis and final accomplishment of every civilization, of all the great forms of art that have followed one another, blending and overlapping ever since man has existed and began expressing himself, like a fugue with innumerable developments that always returns to focus on the same theme, headed in the same direction. This evolution, as strangely loaded with analogies as it is rigidly anachronous, has borne, followed and determined without failing, the mutations in our image. Art of the West in particular, in all its principal incarnations from ancient mythologies all the way to Rodin, from the Romanesque pilgrimage down to Daumier and Picasso—moving through culminating points of extreme harmony or tension: Rembrandt, Goya, Soutine—is presented as the great figure of a God in human appearance. Around this figure has been formed an entire world in which the real has continually been re-invented as art renewed its statements of it. Did this God and this world lose soul and memory on the day when the photographer's lens, a disastrously incorruptible witness, indicated the limits of very strict anthropomorphism?