Annotationen:Cybernetics, Experience, and the Concept of Self
If the feedback model is to be of use in the study of the more complex forms of behavior we see in animals, and in humans, we shall have to give it some capability for learning. In Craik’s words (1966, p. 59),
We should now have to conceive a machine capable of modification of its own mechanism so as to establish that mechanism which was successful in solving the problem at hand, and the suppression of alternative mechanisms. Although this may seem a great demand, we can be comforted by the reflexion that animals and man can only modify their activity within the limits imposed by their anatomy, or the materials and machines available; though it is a great demand, it is not an infinitely great one. In a sense, the solution lies in this very early statement of the problem. It consists in establishing and recording for every kind of error signal (problem) “that mechanism which was successful in solving the problem.” In other words, if there are several kinds of disturbance and, consequently, several kinds of error signals, the system has to discover which of the activities in its behavioral repertoire is most likely to correct a particular error signal. On the simplest level this can be achieved only through inductive inference.
A living system, due to its circular organization, is an inductive system and functions always in a predictive manner; what occurred once will occur again. Its organization (both genetic and otherwise) is conservative and repeats only that which works (Maturana, 1970, pp. 15–16).
The simplest learning system, thus, will have a repertoire of several different activities and at least one sense organ and one comparator that generates an error signal whenever the sensory signals do not match the reference value. What it has to learn (i.e., what is not determined by fixed wiring), is to make the error signal trigger the particular activity that is likely to reduce it.Before discussing the general implications of the learning feedback model, there is one practical point to stress because, although it is implicit in any description of the system’s functioning, its full import is rarely appreciated. The learning process neces- sarily begins with the random choice of an activity in response to an error signal. If that activity does not reduce the error signal, another activity will be tried, and so forth, until one is found that does lead to a reduction of the “disturbance.” This trial-and-error procedure stops when the trial brings success. The connection between that activity and the particular error signal is then recorded and from then on, if there is no disruption, that error signal will “automatically” call up the activity that was successful. However, if there had been no disturbance and, consequently, no error signal, no learning could have taken place. It seems quite possible, if not likely, that an organism with a fairly large repertoire of activities might have several that could reduce the same disturbance. Given the original random approach, however, the organism may not discover this. Since it has recorded that activity x was successful in eliminating a particular disturbance, it will enact this activity in response to that error signal as long as it continues to be successful, and there will be no motive to try others. One can say that such an organism will learn only as a result of disturbance, and it will give up or modify something it has learned only when this again leads to disturbance. This mode of functioning, as we shall see later, fits very well into the Piagetian conception of the complementary processes of assimilation and accommodation.
As Powers (1973) has formulated it, an organism “behaves in order to control its perception.” In more explicit terms, that means that an organism acts to modify a sensory signal towards a match with the reference signal, so that there will no longer be the error signal that triggers the activity. On the simplest level we may even say that an organism acts to eliminate error signals. And its learning consists in finding (and recording for future use) an activity that will do that. The trials with different activities will cease when the error signal ceases, and the successful connection that has “caused” the reduction of the error signal will be the new “knowledge.” The next time that same error signal comes from the comparator, the organism will “know” which activity to choose. The point is that the organism has neither need nor use for what an observer of the organism calls its environment. Provided there is some recursion in the sequential conjunction of certain activities and certain modifications of sensory signals, the organism can learn to eliminate error signals. It needs no knowledge of distal data, of environment, or of an outside reality, and there seems to be no reasonable way for the organism to acquire such knowledge.
For an observer, of course, it may be plausible to establish all sorts of relations between the organism’s “output” (i.e. the effect of its activities on the environment) and its “input” (i.e. the environmental “stimuli” assumed to cause the organism’s sensory signals). But these items may not be quite as straightforward as they appear. I have elsewhere argued for a radical constructivist view of knowledge (von Glasersfeld, 1975, 1976, 1977; Richards and von Glasersfeld, 1978) on all levels of organization. Here I shall confine myself to pointing out that the kind of knowledge our simple organism acquires by installing connections between error signals and activities is, indeed, a form of construction, and since it deals exclusively with the proximal data of the organism’s own subjective experience, one would be justified in calling it wholly subjective.
This leads to the second use I want to suggest for the black box concept. If it is the experiencer’s intelligence or cognitive activity that, by organizing itself, organizes experience into a viable representation of a world, then one can consider that representation a model, and the “outside reality” it claims to represent, a black box. The moment we attribute to the learning homeostat (to use our original example) the capabilities of representation and hypothesis, it can begin to conjecture how it comes about that a certain activity regularly results in the modification of a certain sensory signal. It can begin to construct a representation of an external world with which it has two conceivable points of contact: “input” in the form of its effect on the outside, and “output” in the form of outside events that cause its own sensory signals. The rep- resentation, therefore, will have to be no more and no less than a hypothetical model of functions, entities, and events that could “explain” regularities in the organism’s experience. And as a cyberneticist would expect, there is no way to match the model against the “real” structure of the black box.
In that first section of the book he does, of course, expound his theory of the genesis of the object concept, while the subsequent sections deal with the concepts of space, causality, time and, finally, the universe. Though he treats the construction of these concepts sequentially, he makes it very clear that he does not consider them sequential in the child’s development. In his view, one conceptual construction gives rise to all these concepts. In other words, experiential objects, space, causality, time— and I would add the concepts of change, motion, substance, identity, and self—all stem from one common initial construction and are therefore connate and inextricably interrelated. Hence, mention of “steps” in subsequent paragraphs does not imply a chronological but a logical sequence. There are certain steps that are logically indispensable prerequisites for others. But the logic is our logic, an observer’s logic, and as such it applies to a model the observer is building.
Even if we wanted to believe that perception is nothing but an organism’s internal replication of a ready-made external world in which objects are given, we would have to explain how such an internal replication is constituted. This question runs into the same difficulty regardless of whether it is asked by a realist or by a constructivist. Neither can disregard the simple fact that an “object,” from the point of view of the experiencing organism (i.e., in terms of the organism’s sensory experience) is never quite the same on different occasions. For example, the visual experience that we consider an instance of a specific object is different every time. The object’s shape changes according to the angle, and its size according to the distance from which it is seen. Its color changes according to the illumination, and other parameters are no less variable according to changes in the context. What, then, constitutes the invariant object which the organism recognizes? There seems to be no way around the assumption that, as far as the organism is concerned, an “object” must be a construct, actively abstracted from a number of experiences by holding on to a somewhat flexible constellation of characteristics and allowing each of them to vary within a certain range.
Suppose a very young child applies the word dog to every four-legged creature he sees. He may have abstracted a limited set of attributes and created a large category, but his abstraction will now show up in his vocabulary. Parents will not provide him with a conventional name for his category, e.g., quadruped, but instead will require him to narrow his use of dog to its proper range...
The child who spontaneously hits on the category four-legged animals will be required to give it up in favor of dogs, cats, horses, cows, and the like ... The schoolboy who learns the word quadruped has abstracted from differentiated and named subor- dinates. The child he was abstracted through a failure to differentiate. Abstraction after differentiation may be the mature process, and abstraction from a failure to differentiate the primitive.
Categorizing experiential objects in the particular way prescribed by the language the child has to acquire is, of course, not quite the same as deriving an object-concept from two or more experiences (see “Equivalence and Continuity,” below). But in both cases differentiation and abstraction seem to play much the same role. In the naming of objects it is the conventional nature of linguistic expressions that compels the child to structure his concepts in a certain way. In the construction of recursively usable object-concepts it is the organism’s active search for recurrence and regularity that compels it to create “sameness” by focusing on similarities and disregarding differences. In Piagetian terms, this active imposition of invariance on instances of experience that are always different in some way is the ubiquitous process of assimilation.As observers, we may legitimately speak of the organism and its “external environment,” but the organism cannot make that distinction with regard to itself; it merely has its own experience. Hence, from the organism’s point of view, to assimilate means to modify a present experience so that it fits a hereditary or acquired scheme, i.e., a perceptual or motor pattern that already has, in some sense, the character of an invariant. In other words, invariants create repetition as much as repetition creates invariants. This may not be nearly as paradoxical as it sounds. The linguistic example of names may once more help to illuminate the point. Having established four-leggedness as the invariant critical feature of the complex experience associated with the word dog, the child focuses on four-leggedness and uses the word dog whenever that feature is available among the experiential material. That means that the child will assimilate all sorts of items—many of which he would later call cat, horse, sheep or cow—and in doing so, he will disregard the experiential elements that might distinguish them from the original experience associated with the word dog.
Piaget suggests this frequently by saying that the organism must be considered an active experiencer rather than a passive receiver of stimuli. In the excerpts quoted above, he is even more specific: the organism assimilates items in order to suck, look at, or grasp. These activities, like all others which the organism has or acquires, have a certain sequential pattern and usually lead to certain experiential results. They are procedures toward certain experiential goals. But to be attained, these goals require the support (i.e., the presence) of more or less specific elements of experience. And there may be occasions when the elements present could not be assimilated to conform to the expected results of the activity.
When an infant, for instance, assimilates some visual elements to the invariant pattern that, for him, constitutes a rattle, and grasps and shakes a piece of wood that happens to be within reach, then the absence of the auditory element expected to ensue may cause a discrepancy that cannot be eliminated by assimilation. In that case, attention is likely to be focused on any of the formerly disregarded visual or tactual elements by means of which the piece of wood could be discriminated from the rattle. Once the discrimination has occurred, the new elements, with or without some of the old ones, can be associated in an act of accommodation to form a novel scheme. This novel scheme, from then on, will serve as a relatively independent invariant for the assimilation of future experiences.
I hope this brief exposition of the complex interaction of assimilatory and accommodatory processes has indicated that this part of Piaget’s theory is compatible with the cybernetic approach. To refer once more to the feedback model, one might say that assimilation, insofar as it adjusts sensory signals, reduces the generation of error signals. Accommodation, on the other hand, occurs only when there is a discrepancy or disturbance for which the organism does not yet have an established remedy.“The object is in the first instance only known through the subject’s actions, and therefore must be itself constructed” (Piaget, 1972, p.82). For Piaget, early instances of “objects” are always subsections of an action scheme. They are the sensory schemes which, in conjunction with a motor scheme, constitute a sensorimotor activity. As such they are always a compound of perceptual as well as proprioceptive data. That is to say, they are a scheme composed not only of several sensory signals but also of signals in several sensory modes. Usually this means that they contain visual and tactual signals as well as proprioceptive signals deriving from the motor activity of the perceiver. As the result of many acts of accommodation that added or removed particular experiential elements, an object-scheme becomes relatively invariant and may be used to assimilate new experience. But all this still takes place on the level of sensorimotor activities and, though it may serve as partial model for later developments, it does not entail the formation of concepts. Hence this use of an invariant scheme is by no means a manifestation of the concept of object permanence, because its invariance arises from and consists in the repetition of an activity and does not yet involve the invariance of an independent object.
Introspectively we know that we can operate on a representational level. Empirically we know that people can solve quite complicated problems in their heads (i.e., without perceptual crutches, such as pencil and paper) and that some of them can even play several games of chess simultaneously without any visual aids whatever. Nevertheless I do not want to say that adults or children have representations as a matter of fact. All I intend is that the kind of model a cognitivist constructs to “explain” the functioning of such organisms must have that capability. Once a system is equipped with this ability to maintain experiential compounds invariant and to use them independently of present sensory experience, all sorts of interesting things become possible. For the moment I shall mention only two. First, the term invariant acquires a new dimensions. In the context of sensorimotor assimilation, it was always a perceptual or motor activity that was called invariant because it did not change in the face of different sensory material. Now, if the invariant can be used on the representational level, without an activity, it becomes like a program or a subroutine that is invariant in that it is stored somewhere in a memory from which it can be retrieved. It is this change of status that gives rise to the concepts of permanence and of identity, a further step in the construction of permanent objects.
The second development made possible by the introduction of the representational use of invariants is that they can now be used as building blocks for conceptual constructions that move further and further away from the raw material of sensory or motor signals. This shift constitutes one of the salient characteristics of all the “higher,” more sophisticated mental operations and it has consequences for epistemology far beyond the scope of this chapter. But, the principle of (1) learning to construct a composite in a certain way and out of certain elements, (2) storing the program or recipe of construction, and (3) retrieving it as a unit to combine with others of parallel origin and form a “higher-level” structure, without having to return to the “lower” level, has proven to be one of the most powerful in the construction of knowledge. It allows us to proceed much as a bricklayer, who can devote all his energy and attention to the creation of a wall or an arch, without ever stopping to ask where the bricks he is using came from or how they were made. And just as the characteristics of the bricks (e.g., shape and size) make it impossible for the bricklayer to build certain structures, so the ready-made conceptual building blocks impose constraints on any future construction.
Earlier, we asked the question, “What constitutes the invariant object that the organism recognizes?” If we take this question without context, “invariant” clearly could be interpreted in two radically different ways. On the one hand, it could be a prototype, or template, by which the organism categorizes certain experiences as exemplars of the class represented by the invariant. This is the sense of object concept and it was then illustrated by the example from psycholinguistics. On the other hand, the “invariant” could be interpreted as an object in its own right that remains unchanged because it “exists” and is recognized as the selfsame individual every time it enters the organism’s field of experience. This is the sense of “invariant” that corresponds to the conception of object permanence. Both the concept of the object as prototype, with regard to which experiences may be considered equivalent, and the concept of object permanence, as a result of which two or more experiences may be considered to derive from one identical individual, involve a form of invariance. But the invariance is certainly not the same in both cases.
No recurrence can possibly be established unless there are records of past experiences and the possibility of surveying them in some way. That requires not only memory and retrieval capabilities (which I shall take for granted), but that the experiencing organism can switch his attention from “present” items to the records of “past” items. It is only by switching from one item to another that absence of difference can be established, with the result that the two experiential items are the same. Eliane Vurpillot (1972) has elegantly documented the switching to and fro of children’s eyes during visual comparison tasks. Eye movements indicate shifts of attention in the visual field. Shifts of attention, however, have also been observed when eye movement is eliminated by stabilizing the visual image (Pritchard, Heron, and Hebb, 1960; Zinchenko and Vergiles, 1972). Hence we may safely assume that attention can also shift between items when some or all of them are representational.
An analysis of the actual procedure of comparison also has conceptual implications. If the direction of comparison is from item A to item B, in the sense that the characteristics found in A are then checked in B, item B may be considered the same (in the likeness sense) if no difference is registered in the checked char- acteristics. But in that case B may or may not have characteristics which are not represented at all in A. Hence it should not be called “equivalent,” let alone “identical.” In order to establish equivalence, the comparison would have to be carried out in both directions. This distinction is of considerable practical importance, since it is all too easy to overlook the fact that in classifying or categorizing, as a rule, a one-directional comparison is all that is made.[1]
But consider a case in which there is no continuous succession at all but, nevertheless, we are able to construe individual identity. A well-fed brother whom one has not seen for 20 years may be bald and scrawny when he returns; he may have a different accent, his likes and dislikes may have changed, and what he now says about politics, art, and women may be incompatible with what one remembers of him. Yet one could still accept him as the self-same individual. How do we construct continuity across such enormous experiential gaps? I believe we acquire the ability in small steps.
The first step is to assume continuity of a composite whole on the strength of an experientially continuous part. We do this every time we watch a moving object that for a moment partially disappears and then comes into full sight again. In an infant’s early life, that is a frequent experience, since there are nearly always some visual obstacles in the immediate environment behind which parts of people disappear. Visual tracking is manifest very early and soon enables the infant to follow an item even when it wholly disappears for a moment (Bower, 1974). In that case it cannot be a visual part of the experiential item. Rather it is the proprioceptive signals generated by the tracking motion that supply the continuity. The essential feature, however, is the experiential continuity of some signal sequence that connects the percept that disappears with the percept that reappears, and that can hold the child’s attention so that no other item comes into focus. If there is no such sequence and, consequently, there is a refocusing of attention in the interval, the two experiential items will not be construed as one individual, no matter how similar they may be as percepts. For many five-year-olds, for instance, the sun today and the sun yesterday are not yet one and the same individual (Piaget, 1971, p. 87).
As long as the linear sequence of attention focused on sensory signals is the only dimension of the child’s experience, it is logically impossible to connect two experiential items across an interval during which none of the signals constituting them is continuous. Such a connection has to be created outside the ongoing experiential sequence, so that it can subsist, as it were, in parallel and is not broken by the actual sensory experiences that occur during the internal.The concept of “self” seems simple enough when we refer to it in an accustomed context and in ordinary language. As a rule people do not object if one makes statements such as “That’s typical of James” or “Well, I can’t help it, I am like that.” Even the rather peculiar expressions “You are you” and “I am I” do not seem as peculiar as Gertrude Stein’s “A rose is a rose.” What we apparently have in mind when we make any such statement is the individual identity or continuity of a person. However, as soon as we attempt to analyze what precisely it is that constitutes the continuity of our “selves,” we run into difficulties and get the impression that there is an ambiguity. The “self” seems to have several different aspects.
First of all, there is a self that is part of one’s perceptual experience. In my visual field, for instance, I can easily discriminate my hand from the writing pad and the table, and from the pencil it is holding. I have no doubt that the hand is part of me, while the pad, the table, and the pencil are not.
Second, if I move my eyes, tilt my head, or walk to the window, I can isolate my “self” as the locus of the perceptual (and other) experiences I am having. This self as the “experiencer” appears to be an active agent rather than a passive entity. It can, in fact, move my eyes, tilt my head, change location—and it can also attend to one part of the visual or experiential field rather than to another. This active self can decide to look or not to look, to move or not to move, to hold the pencil or not to hold it and, within certain limits, to experience or not to experience.[5]Perhaps the most serious obstacle that has impeded traditional psychology from arriving at a plausible analysis of the concept of “self” is the assumption that the dichotomy between an organism and its environment is basically the same as the dichotomy between an experiencing subject and what it experiences. As argued in the section “Observer and Observed,” the distinction between an organism and its environment can be made only by an observer of the organism. The organism itself has no access to distal data, to items outside itself. But with the construction of permanent objects, the organism externalizes some of the invariants it abstracts from its experience and treats them, from then on, as independent external items (see “Equivalence and Continuity,” above). This externalization, as we have seen, goes hand in hand with the establishing of internal representations or concepts, and this dual development of objects, which are “perceptual,” and concepts, which are “representational,” leads to a sharp division between two forms of experience, one “external” and the other “internal.” (There are, of course, illusions, dreams, and hallucinations that, from the subject’s point of view, blur that division.) Both the internal and the external, however, are explicitly experience, and the division between them, therefore, is a division between two types of experience and not the division between an experiencing subject and the objects it experiences.
When I visually distinguish a hand from the writing pad and the table on which it lies, I carry out exactly the same kinds of operations as when I distinguish the coffee cup from the table on which it stands, or the picture from the wall on which it hangs, or the cardinal outside my window from the branch on which it happens to be perched and from the rest of the landscape. In all these cases I am recognizing certain objects to which I have attributed relative consistency (closure) and permanence. Having successfully externalized permanent objects, I am now experiencing them as parts of “distal reality.” From the purely visual point of view, the operations by means of which I separate objects from the rest of the visual field or “ground” are always the same kind. And the observer’s distinction between an organism and its environment is normally made in the visual field (which is not to say that such a distinction could not be made in the tactual mode). Thus, although we can visually distinguish birds, coffee cups, tables, and hands from the rest of the visual field and from one another, it seems clear that a naive organism (i.e., an organism such as an infant that does not yet have a great deal of intermodally coordinated experiences) cannot visually discriminate between a hand and his own hand.
If the Piagetian approach to the notion of object permanence is a viable one, it should not surprise us that the notion of self as a constant perceptual entity cannot be derived from vision alone. According to that theory, permanent objects are the result of the coordination of signals from more than one sensory source.[6] Since the body percept obviously does achieve the status of permanent object, it must be multi-modal, and the question now is: what kinds of signals and coordinations of signals would enable an organism to differentiate one permanent object—his own body—from all the other permanent objects that have been constructed and externalized? The answer is extremely complex; there are many factors that contribute to the differentiation and isolation of the body percept. In this summary exposition I shall sketch out a few of the points that seem crucial. Such an analysis is necessarily made by an observer who can only hypothesize what goes on in the black box we call an observed organism. (See “The Use of Black Boxes,” above.) The indispensable limitation of this hypothesizing is that the organism can operate only with its own proximal data, i.e., with signals that can be supposed to originate within it rather than with “information” originating in what from the observer’s point of view is the organism’s environment. I would also like to emphasize that this analysis is provisional and lays no claim to being definitive, let alone exhaustive.
Under the heading time, I said that continuity and sequence both spring from the juxtaposition of two successions of signals that are separate in the experiential field but interrelated by attention. The one is continuous relative to the other, the other is sequential relative to the first. Take a finger of your right hand and run it along your left forearm: the tactual signals originating in your finger will be a homogeneous “continuous” succession because the receptors from which they come remain the same; the tactual signals originating in your left arm, instead, will constitute a sequence of different signals because they come from different receptors. If you consider this second set of signals as a sequence of different locations with which your finger establishes and terminates contact, you will conceive of your finger as moving. If you consider them equivalent units linked into sequence by the continuous signals from your finger, you will conceive of them as points or “moments” in time. In this second case, the finger of your right hand supplies what is perhaps the closest sensory-motor analogy to the continuity of the experiencing subject that we call our ““self.”
The child who stands in front of a looking glass, sticks out his tongue, and contorts his face into all sorts of grimaces gets a constant confirmation of this causal link. The mirror image is as obedient as his own limbs and can, thus, be integrated with the body percept, expanding it by providing visual access to otherwise invisible aspects. And like the body image, it is a visual percept, an item that is experienced not the item that does the experiencing. This central item, the experiencer himself, remains mysterious. Without ever perceiving it, we know that it is at the heart of whatever continuity or invariant we construct in our perceptual world. As teenagers, at one time or another, many of us stood in front of a looking glass and wondered: where am I? it is a question we are still unable to answer when we are adults.
Sketchy and incomplete though they are, I hope the preceding paragraphs have shown that there are several relatively independent sources from which facets of the self percept can be developed. Much remains to be worked out; above all, the detailed analysis of the process by which these facets become integrated into what we so strongly feel to be a unitary concept of our self. While we can work out a plausible model for the self as an entity of our sensorimotor world of experience, this model cannot throw any light on what we feel to be our self as experiencing entity. The reason lies in the very structure of our conception of knowledge. In the Western tradition of science and rational explanation, knowledge by its very nature requires a dichotomy between the knower and the things he knows. In other words, we can come to know only what we consider to be in some sense separate from our knowing selves. By questioning something, by the very act of asking what it is, we have already set our self, the questioner, apart.
As a metaphor—and I stress that it is intended as a metaphor—the concept of an invariant that arises out of mutually or cyclically balancing changes may help us to approach the concept of self. In cybernetics this metaphor is implemented in the “closed loop,” the circular arrangement of feedback mechanisms that maintain a given value within certain limits. They work towards an invariant, but the invariant is achieved not by a steady resistance, the way a rock stands unmoved in the winds but by compensation over time. Wherever we happen to look in a feedback loop, we find the present act pitted against the immediate past, but already on the way to being compensated itself by the immediate future. The invariant the system achieves can, therefore, never be found or frozen in a single element because, by its very nature, it consists in one or more relationships—and relationships are not in things but between them.
The traditional view, both in psychology and epistemology, disregards the inevitable dichotomy between what can be said about observed organisms and what organisms might be able to say about their own experience. Insofar as the cyberneticist is a builder of models (physical or conceptual) that are supposed to regulate or govern themselves, he must remain aware of that dichotomy.
The naive realist view, that what we experience has to be a more or less direct reflection of an independently existing reality in which everything is fully structured and fixed, has made insight into cognitive development impossible. On that basis, development seems an obligatory one-way street of maturation and learning—in the sense of “finding out” or “discovering” how things really are and how they work. The only theoretical puzzle would be that development so rarely leads to any adequate understand or wisdom.
First, there is the tempting but logically erroneous idea that what we rightly call “environment” relative to an organism when both the organism and its environment are being observed by us, must also be our environment and can, therefore, be held causally responsible for what we ourselves experience. Second, there is the mistaken belief that the “environment” which is part of our experiential field has to be identical with the experiential field of the observed organism (von Glasersfeld, 1976).
Hence it is quite a shock to be told that as children we did not start out with that notion but gradually and laboriously acquired it.
The preceding pages have laid out some implications of Piaget’s theory of early cognitive development that are rarely emphasized because they require a rather drastic modification of our common-sense ideas.
"The mind organizes the world by organizing itself. Jean Piaget, 1973"
A living system, due to its circular organization, is an inductive system and functions always in a predictive manner; what occurred once will occur again. Its organization (both genetic and otherwise) is conservative and repeats only that which works (Maturana, 1970, pp. 15–16).
The growth of the human mind partly consists of the successive attainment or formation of cognitive invariants. As its name suggests, an invariant is something that remains the same while other things in the situation change or undergo various transformations. The identification of constant textures or invariants in the midst of flux and change is an absolutely indispensable cognitive activity for an adaptive organism, and it is particularly characteristic of human rationality (Flavell, 1977, p. 48).
Permanent “things” again; the “same” thing and its various “appearances” and “alterations”; the different “kinds” of thing ... it is only the smallest part of his experience’s flux that anyone actually does straighten out by applying to it these conceptual instruments. Out of them all our lowest ancestors probably used only, and then most vaguely and inaccurately, the notion of “the same again.” But even then if you had asked them whether the same were a “thing” that had endured throughout the unseen interval, they would probably have been at a loss, and would have said that they had never asked that question, or considered matters in that light (James, 1907/1955, p. 119).
When Norbert Wiener launched the term some 30 years ago, he defined it as “the study of control and communication in the animal and the machine” (Wiener, 1948).
Philon of Byzantium, in the third century B.C., built one of the earliest fully documented examples: an oil lamp in which the level of oil in the burner controlled the amount of oil fed into the burner from a reservoir (Mayr, 1970).
As a result of its technological implementations we can now also discriminate two types of purpose that, formerly, seemed inextricably confused. We can clearly see that the thermostat has the purpose of maintaining the temperature in the controlled area close to the reference value, whereas it is some outside agent that sets the reference value as a purpose for the thermostat (Pask, 1969, pp. 22–24). This distinction is of particular significance if we want to use the feedback principle to explain living organisms. While the simple arrangement illustrated by the thermostat serves well enough as a model for the homeostatic functions that control single physiological conditions in the body, such as internal temperature, sugar level, and blood pressure (see Cannon, 1932), it is obviously insufficient to explain directed behaviors whose goals change from situation to situation and from context to context.
A more sophisticated system will have a hierarchical arrangement in which the reference values on one level are adjusted by a control system on another level. (See, for instance, Powers, 1973). In arrangements of this sort, it will be the goal of one level to set the goal for another. More important is the fact that the feedback model as I have so far described it does not provide for any form of learning. There are different ways of learning that can be incorporated in cybernetic models (Powers, 1973; McFarland, 1971), and one of them is, in principle, an implementation of the age-old process of inductive inference. This was first suggested by Kenneth Craik in the early 1940s and then practically applied by Ross Ashby (1970).
If the feedback model is to be of use in the study of the more complex forms of behavior we see in animals, and in humans, we shall have to give it some capability for learning. In Craik’s words (1966, p. 59), We should now have to conceive a machine capable of modification of its own mechanism so as to establish that mechanism which was successful in solving the problem at hand, and the suppression of alternative mechanisms. Although this may seem a great demand, we can be comforted by the reflexion that animals and man can only modify their activity within the limits imposed by their anatomy, or the materials and machines available; though it is a great demand, it is not an infinitely great one.
The preceding paragraphs cover only a fraction of the work that has already been accomplished with the cybernetic approach to the analysis of regulatory functions in organisms. An excellent technical survey has been provided by McFarland (1971) and an integrated theory of behavior by Powers (1973). The epistemological aspects of the cybernetic approach have particularly interesting implications for the study of cognition and cognitive development.
If the organism’s learning is inductive, it operates on the assumption (or belief) that there must be some regularity in its experience: “what occurred once will occur again.” In fact, there can be no learning without that assumption, for, as Hume put it, “If there be any Suspicion, that the Course of Nature may change, and that the past may be no Rule for the future, all Experience becomes useless, and can give rise to no Inferences or Conclusions” (Hume, 1748/1963, p. 47).
As Powers (1973) has formulated it, an organism “behaves in order to control its perception.”
From there to Piaget’s statement that “intelligence organizes the world by organizing itself” (Piaget, 1954) may not be nearly as far as it seems.
To express the idea behind tile quotation at the head of this chapter, I might just as well have chosen Einstein’s formulation: “It is the theory which decides what we can observe” (quoted in Heisenberg, 1971, p. 63), or a somewhat more direct and factual one from Heisenberg “The mathematical formulations (of physics) no longer depict Nature, but rather our knowledge of Nature” (Heisenberg, 1955, p.19).
If science can no longer be said to observe, explore, and eventually explain a “real” world, supposed to exist and to be the way it is, regardless of whether we are experiencing it or not, what then is science doing? “What science deals with is an imagined word” and it is “a construct, and some of the peculiarities of scientific thought become more intelligible when this fact is recognized” (Hebb, 1975, pp. 4 and 9).
In short, scientists seem to be involved in a process of learning that, qua process, is not at all unlike the learning of our ultrasimple model organism. Instead of establishing experiential regularities from which to derive rules of action to eliminate disturbances, they are searching for experiential regularities from which to derive rules of conceptualization for a homogeneous, internally consistent ordering of experience. In doing this, they encounter no shortage of disturbances that, as in the simple feedback model, must be eliminated. But the disturbances are now created by incompatibilities of rules and conceptualizations. And a closer look at history of science should convince anyone that scientists, in their quest for consistency and compatibility, are prepared not only to modify the conceptual relations by means of which they order experiential items, but also to restructure quite radically those items that they consider basic elements (see Hanson, 1958; Kuhn, 1970; Feyerabend, 1975).
There can be no doubt that the division between an observed organism and its environment is both legitimate and extremely useful, provided we remain aware of who makes the division and where it is made (von Foerster, 1970).
There is hardly an introductory text of psychology today that does not refer to the child’s development of the concept of object permanence. Looking at some of them, however, one gets the impression that the authors never read beyond the first hundred pages of Piaget’s The Construction of Reality in the Child (1937/1971).
Suppose a very young child applies the word dog to every four-legged creature he sees. He may have abstracted a limited set of attributes and created a large category, but his abstraction will now show up in his vocabulary. Parents will not provide him with a conventional name for his category, e.g., quadruped, but instead will require him to narrow his use of dog to its proper range... The child who spontaneously hits on the category four-legged animals will be required to give it up in favor of dogs, cats, horses, cows, and the like ... The schoolboy who learns the word quadruped has abstracted from differentiated and named subor- dinates. The child he was abstracted through a failure to differentiate. Abstraction after differentiation may be the mature process, and abstraction from a failure to differentiate the primitive.
Piaget has resolved this difficulty by the introduction of the concept of assimilation. “To assimilate” means literally to make like, and Piaget uses the term quite literally. At the beginnings of assimilatory activity, any object whatever presented by the external environment to the subject’s activity is simply something to suck, to look at, or to grasp. In its beginnings, assimilation is essentially the utilization of the external environment by the subject to nourish his hereditary or acquired schemata (Piaget, 1971, pp. ix and 396).
“The object is in the first instance only known through the subject’s actions, and therefore must be itself constructed” (Piaget, 1972, p.82). For Piaget, early instances of “objects” are always subsections of an action scheme. They are the sensory schemes which, in conjunction with a motor scheme, constitute a sensorimotor activity. As such they are always a compound of perceptual as well as proprioceptive data. That is to say, they are a scheme composed not only of several sensory signals but also of signals in several sensory modes. Usually this means that they contain visual and tactual signals as well as proprioceptive signals deriving from the motor activity of the perceiver.
Eliane Vurpillot (1972) has elegantly documented the switching to and fro of children’s eyes during visual comparison tasks. Eye movements indicate shifts of attention in the visual field. Shifts of attention, however, have also been observed when eye movement is eliminated by stabilizing the visual image (Pritchard, Heron, and Hebb, 1960; Zinchenko and Vergiles, 1972).
This is precisely what Vurpillot demonstrated in her study, and she also noted the one peculiar feature in the procedure. “By convention, one difference is always excluded from the list of properties [to be compared] and that is the object’s location relative to the subject. Since they [the objects] can never appear at the same place at the same time, they will always be different from that point of view” (Vurpillot, 1972, p. 311; my translation).
Visual tracking is manifest very early and soon enables the infant to follow an item even when it wholly disappears for a moment (Bower, 1974).
For many five-year-olds, for instance, the sun today and the sun yesterday are not yet one and the same individual (Piaget, 1971, p. 87).
This second dimension is the representational one, and hand in hand with its development goes the process that Piaget has called externalization. He speaks of a “miniature Copernican revolution” at the end of the sensorimotor period, as a result of which the child begins to see himself as a permanent object among other permanent objects “in a universe that he has gradually constructed himself, and which hereafter he will experience as external to himself” (Piaget, 1967, p. 9).
The practice of causation originates with the infant’s “circular reactions” (Piaget, 1971, p. 351),
Wapner and Werner 1965, p. 10) are aware of the problem and speak of two “complementary notions,” a holistic one and a polar one.
Our theoretical-experimental approach has focused on two characteristics of this relationship between one’s own body and environmental objects. First of all, we assume that there can be no perception of objects “out there” without a bodily framework and, conversely, we assume that there can be no perception of the body-as-object without an environmental frame of reference. Thus, one basic feature of this “body:object” relationship pertains to the interaction constantly going on between them. The central notion here is that the appropriate unit to be dealt with is not the organism per see, but rather, the organism in its environmental context, this conceptualization, then, is that the variability or stability of the biological unit, “body:environment,” reflects itself in body perception as well as in object perception.
Second, complementary to this holistic notion of the biological unit composed of body and environment is a feature which is seemingly in contradiction to it, viz., the feature of oppositeness, or separateness, or polarity between these two elements. Such oppositeness is characteristic of the normal adult insofar as he experiences the world and himself as standing at polar distinction in each other.Trevarthen et al. (1975) have shown that, contrary to previous assumptions, infants in the very early stages of reaching and grasping do not make use of visual feedback concerning the hand’s position. This seems likely because it takes an infant some time to relate the visual image of the hand to the “self” that has the motor command over it.
This very elementary distinction is, of course, strongly reinforced by the fact that the organism is able to generate and control (i.e., direct, speed up, stop, etc.) the motion of its own limbs. This particular coordination of motor control on the basis of visual feedback, for instance in hand movements of human infants, is a difficult task and, as a rule, is not mastered until an age of six or seven moths (Bower, 1977).
The interplay with tactual signals is presumably essential for the evolution of a primitive visual and proprioceptive scheme of the body percept. Every contact with other items that gives rise to tactual signals is an indication of the limits of the body. The progressive coordination of these “contact signals” with the accompanying visual signals is, in fact, the essential element in the organism’s mastery of locomotion and other motor skills (Held, 1965/1972).
Gallup (1977), in a survey of research on self-recognition in primates, comes to the conclusion that only the great apes have the ability to recognize their mirror image as their own. Monkeys and, as many of us have observed in our homes, cats and dogs, quickly learn to discriminate their shadows, reflections, and mirror images from other moving objects or animals, but do not appear to relate them in any way to themselves.[7]
Berger and Luckmann (1967, p. 50) express this very neatly: On the one hand, man is a body, in the same way that this may be said of every other animal organism. On the other hand, man has a body. That is, man experiences himself as an entity that is not identical with his body, but that, on the contrary, has that body at his disposal. In other words, man’s experience of himself always hovers in a balance between being and having a body, a balance that must he redressed again and again.
The two aspects seem wholly incompatible. The paradox of the self experiencing itself, from the logician’s point of view, is analogous to the paradox of self reference. The logical paradox has recently been approached with great success through a novel interpretation of the concept of recursion (Varela, 1976), and it is surely no accident that the very same concept of recursion has opened an equally novel path towards the logical interpretation of “permanent objects” (von Foerster, 1976). An exposition of the formal intricacies of these achievements would be beyond the scope of both this chapter and my competence. One general point, however, brings this discussion back to the place where it began