Perception

YAACOV AGAM — YOU NEVER SEE IT ALL

Gianni Sarcone

“When I finish a work, it is just starting.” — Yaacov Agam

One of my favorite Op Art artists and a true visionary, Yaacov Agam (Hebrew: יעקב אגם) was a pioneer of kinetic and Op Art. His work explored movement, color, time, and perception, making the viewer an active part of the artwork rather than a passive observer.

Born in Rishon LeZion in 1928, Agam studied at the Bezalel Academy in Jerusalem and later with Johannes Itten in Zurich. He moved to Paris in 1951, where he became one of the leading figures of the European avant-garde. His first solo exhibition was held there in 1953.

Agam died in June 2026, at 98, after receiving the Israel Prize for Visual Arts. His work is represented in major museums around the world.

Among his most remarkable achievements is the Salon Agam, commissioned by President Georges Pompidou for the private apartments of the Élysée Palace and created between 1972 and 1974. Now in the collection of the Centre Pompidou, it is essentially a kinetic environment: walls, doors, ceiling, carpet, color and geometric forms change as the viewer moves through the space.

Agam understood something fundamental about visual art: the work is not always what you see. It is also what happens when you move, look again, and see something different.

Is Nature Already a Work of Art?

Gianni Sarcone

Art may not be exclusively a human affair. Nature has its own creative force and aesthetic power. Crystals, shells, clouds, and landscapes produce forms and patterns that we often find as fascinating as works made by artists.

Without disturbing Kant too much—and his somewhat dated distinction between natural and artistic beauty—where does art actually begin?

Nature: the original artist?

Nature creates without any apparent intention. It does not try to please us or express an idea, yet it can produce forms of extraordinary complexity and beauty.

  • Spontaneous beauty: Crystals, landscapes, spirals, symmetries, and biological patterns can display structures we perceive as beautiful.
  • Creation without a plan: Nature produces forms without an artist, a blueprint, or even an audience.
  • Our first inspiration: From the beginning, humans have observed, imitated, and transformed natural forms into their own creations.

For Kant, this is precisely where the difference lies: a work of art involves intention and a concept of what it is supposed to be, whereas natural beauty can be appreciated without knowing any purpose behind what we see.

But is intention really necessary?

Does art require intention?

The idea that we must know what an artist intended in order to understand or judge a work has been questioned for a long time. In 1946, William Wimsatt and Monroe Beardsley famously called the attempt to use an author’s intention as the basis for interpretation the “intentional fallacy.”

And art can go even further.

It can be improvised, accidental, discovered rather than made. It can emerge from a chance encounter between an object and a particular way of looking at it.

Leonardo da Vinci already understood this. He suggested looking at stains and irregular patterns on old walls because they could trigger visions of landscapes, battles, figures, and strange compositions. Chance could become a generator of images.

In other words, the work is not always entirely in the object.

Sometimes, it appears in the eye of the beholder.

Take a stone polished by the sea. It might suddenly remind you of a sculpture by Henry Moore. Nobody sculpted it. Nobody intended it to represent anything. Yet your brain detects a form, gives it meaning, and perhaps even sees a sculpture.

So—is it art?

From found object to readymade

With Marcel Duchamp, things get even more complicated.

The readymade takes an existing object, removes it from its ordinary context, and presents it as art. Duchamp began exploring this idea as early as 1913 with Bicycle Wheel.

The object itself may have little or nothing to do with traditional ideas of beauty. What changes is the context, the choice, and the way we look at it.

Art therefore moves, at least in part, from something made by the artist to something that can be selected, discovered, and reframed by the artist.

And this makes the boundary between creating and discovering surprisingly thin.

A natural form can resemble a sculpture. A stain can become a landscape. An ordinary object can become a work of art. And sometimes a work becomes art only because someone recognizes it as such.

Perhaps the artist does not always create something from nothing.

Sometimes, the artist does something more subtle:

he reveals what everyone else was looking at but never saw.

So where, exactly, do we draw the line between art and non-art?

And ultimately, what makes something art: the object, the artist’s intention, or the eye of the beholder?

How fast do we actually see the world?

Gianni Sarcone

Our visual system does not work like a camera shooting at a fixed number of frames per second. There is no single human “FPS.”

Reality is continuous, but our brain processes visual information on different time scales. Some visual mechanisms are remarkably fast; others are much slower. What we perceive depends on what we are looking at, the stimulus, its brightness and contrast, and even where it falls on the retina.

Flicker is a good example.

When a light flickers fast enough, we stop seeing individual flashes and perceive a steady light. But there is no universal cutoff such as 30 or 60 FPS. Under some conditions, humans can detect flicker well above 60 Hz, and the threshold changes with luminance, contrast, stimulus size, retinal location, and other factors.

And detecting a very brief visual event does not mean that we see at 250 FPS. Temporal resolution is not a single number. Different visual tasks have different limits.

Then there is the famous wagon-wheel illusion.

A spinning wheel can appear to slow down, stop, or even rotate backward. In films, this is a straightforward consequence of the camera sampling the motion at discrete intervals. Interestingly, similar effects can also occur under continuous illumination, suggesting that temporal sampling or aliasing may also occur within the visual system itself. The exact mechanism, however, is more complicated than simply saying that the brain “takes snapshots.”

And what about the feeling that time slows down during danger?

It can certainly feel that way. But experiments have found no evidence that frightening situations suddenly increase our temporal resolution—as if the brain switched to a higher frame rate. Instead, the experience seems to involve changes in attention, memory, and the way the event is reconstructed afterward.

So forget the idea that your brain runs at 30, 60, or 250 FPS.

There is no single frame rate for human vision.

We don’t simply record reality.

We construct our experience of it.

How minimal can a drawing be?

Gianni Sarcone

How far can you strip away a design and still leave it readable? Take almost everything out, and your brain will still fight to make sense of what’s left.

Here are two experiments in pushing that boundary:

  • 24 Configuration: The curve of the 2 flows straight into the diagonal of the 4. The brain uses the Gestalt principle of closure—filling in the missing pieces so you see two distinct digits sharing a single outline.
  • 45 Configuration: Standard typography is stripped back to raw vertical and horizontal lines. The crossbar of the 4 turns directly into the top curve of the 5, relying on your memory of numbers to decode the abstract shape instantly.

When you remove the noise, viewing becomes interactive. You aren’t just looking at a drawing—your mind is actively completing it.

👉 For more patterns, and mathematical curiosities, explore these number facts.

Train your brain by questioning your eyes

Gianni Sarcone

For many years, I collaborated with Publications International Ltd. (PIL) on the Brain Games™ series, creating hundreds of optical illusions for three books designed to challenge visual perception, observation, spatial reasoning, attention, and visual logic.

Optical illusions are more than visual tricks: they make the brain question its first interpretation, detect discrepancies, and construct a different explanation of what it sees. In that sense, they provide a stimulating workout for perception and reasoning.

I now put my expertise in visual perception and optical illusions at the service of publishers, educational institutions, medical centers, and other organizations looking for engaging ways to challenge and stimulate the mind.

Challenge your eyes. Make your brain work.

👉 Discover the latest book on Amazon

optical illusions - Brain Games

When AI Writes What We Want to Read

Gianni Sarcone

Sometimes I wonder how we got here. As someone who has spent a lifetime reading and writing, I can usually spot AI-generated prose. The clichés, recycled formulas, suspiciously polished sentences, and repetitive rhythms often give it away. But apparently, most readers can’t. That’s a little unsettling.

A peer-reviewed study from Villanova University asked 1,682 people to read six short stories. Sometimes they were correctly told whether the author was human or AI; sometimes they were deliberately misled.

The result is uncomfortable.

The AI-written stories were rated 6% higher in quality and 8% more engaging than the human-written ones. Even more telling: when readers believed an AI story had been written by a person, they rated it even higher.

The real story isn’t AI. It’s us.

We don’t necessarily value authenticity—we value the belief that something is authentic. We romanticize the author’s life, struggle, and voice. Remove the label, and our judgment shifts.

AI may not have become a writer. It may simply have become remarkably good at producing the kind of prose that feels familiar, readable, and broadly appealing.

The disturbing question isn’t whether AI can write. It’s whether we can still recognize a genuine voice—or whether we’ve grown so comfortable with the average that we mistake it for excellence.

And yet, there is another layer to this uneasiness. It brings to mind Roland Barthes, who famously wrote: “The birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the Author.”

Barthes argued that meaning ultimately belongs to the reader, rather than to the author’s intentions or biography. AI adds a rather disturbing twist to that idea: what happens when the Author is no longer even a person—and when the reader cannot reliably tell the difference?

Beyond the conformity and mediocrity that AI may encourage, this makes me wonder how little we actually know about why we like what we read. Perhaps the real illusion is not that AI has learned to imitate us, but that we are far more predictable than we ever imagined.

AI

Lions, Elephants, and the Medieval Imagination

Gianni Sarcone

Lions had already appeared in Roman arenas, where they were set loose to devour Christians. Hannibal famously dragged elephants across the Alps. Yet, strangely enough, very few artists left us reliable images of these exotic beasts from the time.

So, centuries later, European artists faced a minor problem: how do you draw an animal you have never seen?

Simple. You copy someone who also never saw it.

This was the medieval version of the telephone game. A lion might be described in a manuscript, copied from an older drawing, or reported by a traveler as “a huge cat with a mane.” Each artist then copied, misunderstood, embellished, and passed the result on. After enough generations, the lion could acquire a human face, bizarre feet, and the general appearance of a creature that had escaped from someone’s nightmare.

The same problem survived well into the Renaissance. Take Albrecht Dürer’s famous 1515 rhinoceros. Dürer had never seen a rhinoceros. He worked from a written description and a sketch made after a real Indian rhino arrived in Portugal. He added armor-like plates that the animal did not actually have.Yet his rhinoceros became so influential that Europeans kept copying Dürer’s imaginary details for centuries.

There is something wonderfully philosophical about this: we rarely inherit reality itself. We inherit other people’s descriptions of it—and then confidently mistake the copies for the truth.

Details and Attributions for Each Picture

Top Row (Left to Right)

1. Top-Left (Manticore / μαντιχώρας)
Author / Artist: Unknown Medieval/Renaissance Illuminator (Greek manuscript tradition)
Date: Unknown (c. 16th Century / Early Modern Era)
Source / Context: Greek bestiary depicting the legendary Manticore with a lion’s body, human head, and scorpion-like tail.

2. Top-Middle (Elephant and Dragon / “De La Nature Del Olifaunt”)
Author / Artist: Unknown French Illuminator
Date: Unknown (c. 13th–14th Century)
Source / Context: Old French bestiary manuscript (Bestiaire) detailing the natural history and allegorical nature of the elephant and its rival, the dragon.

3. Top-Right (Monkey Riding an Elephant / Text: “aut letanias omnium”)
Author / Artist: Unknown Medieval Illuminator
Date: Unknown (c. 13th–14th Century)
Source / Context: Medieval manuscript marginalia / Book of Hours depicting a caped monkey riding a castle-bearing elephant (Howdah).

Bottom Row (Left to Right)

4. Bottom-Left (Smiling Lion in Floral Border)
Author / Artist: Unknown European Illuminator / Miniature Artist
Date: Unknown (c. 15th Century)
Source / Context: Illuminated manuscript page with ornate floral acanthus border work showing a stylized lion.

5. Bottom-Middle (Trumpet-Trunked Elephant with Trees in Framed Border)
Author / Artist: Unknown English or Northern European Illuminator
Date: Unknown (c. 13th Century)
Source / Context: Latin Bestiary miniature showing a stylized medieval elephant with trumpet-like trunk and tusks.

6. Bottom-Right (Paw-Raising Lion under Fruit Trees)
Author / Artist: Unknown Medieval Illuminator
Date: Unknown (c. 13th–14th Century)
Source / Context: Medieval Bestiary illustration depicting a lion gesturing toward fruit trees.

The Deceptive Oriental Fan

Gianni Sarcone

One of my earliest color illusions, created back in the 1990s, when I was immersed in exploring the physiology of color perception.

Do the pleated sections of the fan really have two different shades of brown?

They don’t. Every pleated “accordion” section is exactly the same brown. Only the thin light and dark bands bordering each fold differ. Those subtle edge contrasts trick your visual system into seeing alternating tones where none exist.

The color is perfectly uniform, but your brain interprets it differently depending on the surrounding contrast—a classic example of simultaneous brightness contrast.

Art as an Open Circuit

Gianni Sarcone

Art is sharing—an offering from the artist to the audience. Every audience calls for its own officiant.

In technological terms, a work of art is an output searching for an input. Without that exchange, it remains only a possibility. It comes into existence through its encounter with another mind, where it can generate emotion, doubt, rejection, or wonder. A work is born once in the artist’s mind, and then again in the mind of the person who experiences it.

The artist is a translator between an inner vision and the outside world. They offer a fragment of themselves, without ever being able to control how that offering will be interpreted. Every audience recognizes the artists who resonate with its own sensibility, its questions, and its time. Every audience calls for its own officiant.

But does an art exist that cannot be shared?

If we define art not as the final object—the painting, the book, the symphony—but as the state of consciousness and the act of creation itself, then that art is fundamentally impossible to communicate. The finished work is only a trace, the imprint of an inner experience that no one else can truly access. What the audience receives is never the act of creation itself, but its remainder: its echo, its shadow, and sometimes even its misunderstanding.

share your art
(To illustrate this point, I’ve added an ironic image circulating on the net. I hope you appreciate the irony—and my sense of humor.)

Topsy-Turvy Illusions from the Past

Gianni Sarcone

“The Lawyer and the Client” (1790), an etching by John Kay, is a clever visual joke—and a rather pointed one about the legal profession.

The Lawyer and the Client - Etching

Look at it one way and you see a smug lawyer. Turn it upside down and the same face becomes a worried client. A simple rotation changes the character completely, showing how appearances—and perhaps even justice—can depend on the point of view.

Below, another of Kay’s reversible caricatures: “Before and After Marriage.”

Before and After Marriage - Etching

John Kay (1742–1826) was a Scottish caricaturist and etcher known for his satirical portraits of Edinburgh society. Topsy-turvy caricatures were popular in the 18th and 19th centuries because they combined visual wit with social criticism, hiding two meanings in a single image.