Flexibility and the Imaginative

A post by Alyssa Walker

In an Instagram post, lyricist Sophie Hunter tells viewers that the title for her debut rap album, Stereoscope, came from the rediscovery of her grandparents 3D wedding photos in the wake of their passing. Two photos are printed on each slide, and when they are viewed through binoculars, they merge into a single, 3D image. Hunter reports having struggled to find a theme for her album, which includes both “unserious and fun” to “dark and earnest” tracks. The memory of the stereographic images presented an opportunity to unite the range under a single heading. She says, “via stereoscope, we gain dimension by looking at two different perspectives of the same thing. The truth of me, and the music, and maybe life, was not one side or another but the space between. The collage made of their distance, like a left and right eye, their difference creates depth – turns two dimensions to three” (Hunter @sophiehunter.mp3 2026).

I think the right way to think about Hunter’s process is as imaginative. However, my understanding of what this entails departs from the common understanding expressed in the literature. It is typical in papers on imagination to refer to imaginative states, imaginative attitudes, imaginative projects, imaginative experiences, etc. In these exchanges, what seems to be meant is that the imaginative just is an instantiation of a state of imagination or an attitude of imagination, and so on. The assumption at work thus seems to be that what it means for something to be imaginative is entirely reducible to instances of imagination.

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Kierkegaard, Imagination, and the Self

A post by Wojciech Kaftanski

Søren Kierkegaard is hardly a household name among the “imagination professionals.” One would look in vain for his name in the indexes of standard or classical analytic essay collections on imagination. For many outside the Kierkegaardian bubble, knowledge of the Dane is limited to a deranged religious thinker who publicly dumped his girlfriend Regine Olsen only to dedicate his corpus to her and send her veiled love letters long after she remarried. Wrapping one’s head around that romantic strategy requires a level of imagination few of us possess, I fear. Unsurprisingly, Kierkegaard is routinely reduced to a rite of passage for certain graduate students. Many of us have seen them: pacing the department corridors during a mandatory existentialist phase to debate the meaning of life while wearing heavy scarves, trench coats, and turtlenecks—wait, no, the turtlenecks are Foucault, my apologies.

But there is more to the Great Dane than the cheerful, late-night-dorm-room themes of suffering, death, anxiety, guilt, and martyrdom. Beneath the existential angst lies a highly sophisticated theory of the mind that speaks to contemporary debates. Crucially, Kierkegaard argues that imagination is not a peripheral cognitive luxury but the very engine of human selfhood.

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Joint Imagining

A post by Megan Entwistle

You’re reading a novel on the train. You’re engrossed in your private, fictional world of characters and intrigue. As you turn a page, you feel the person sitting next to you shift in their seat. Suddenly you realize: they’ve been reading over your shoulder!

Why is this so disconcerting?

For a number of reasons, surely. Perhaps it feels like they’re in your personal space. Perhaps you feel you’ve been observed for a long time without noticing. Or perhaps it’s that your imaginative experience was not, as you had assumed, so private after all.

That last reaction is a little odd. You aren’t the first to read that particular novel and you won’t be the last. You like to read book reviews, lend your favorite books to your friends, and swap interpretations. Nevertheless, there is something different about the very same words at the very same time evoking (the very same?) images in a very real person next to you.

This blog post is about that difference: the difference between imagining alone, and imagining with others.

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Fictions as Instructions

A post by Anhui Huang

Fictions are Instructions for Make-Believe

Tonight I am in the mood to cook. So I open New York Times Cooking and find myself a recipe: Ali Slagle’s Sheet-Pan Feta with Chickpeas and Tomatoes. The first item under “Ingredients” is “3 cups cooked chickpeas, drained, rinsed, and shaken dry.”

So I go to the grocery store and purchase two cans of chickpeas. When I get home, I drain the liquid, rinse them, shake them dry, and measure out three cups.

This is an ordinary case of following the instructions in a recipe. Notice, though, that the recipe never explicitly tells me to do these things. Instead of saying “Purchase some chickpeas. Then drain them and rinse them…”, it simply lists the chickpeas as an ingredient and describes the state that it needs to be in. Still, I understand what I am supposed to do, because I know what a recipe is and how it is supposed to be interpreted.

I think fiction works the same way.

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Participative Imagination and the Role of Perspective

A post by Antonello Caravelli

One of the central concepts in my PhD research is perspective. The term is ubiquitous in contemporary discussions of imagination. We are often told that imagination allows us to adopt the perspective of others or represent points of view different from our own. Yet the more I have worked on imagination, the more I have come to suspect that such discussions capture only one dimension of this term.

Perspective is typically treated as something represented within imagination. Philosophers and cognitive scientists ask whose perspective is imagined, which point of view is adopted, or how successfully we can imagine being someone else. Important as these questions are, they may overlook another role that perspective can play: rather than merely figuring in imaginative content, it can organise imaginative activity itself.

My claim is that perspective should be understood not only as something represented or adopted within imagination, but also as an organisational dimension of imaginative activity. In participative imagination, the imaginer's perspective helps structure which cognitive and affective resources are mobilised, which features become salient, and which possibilities are explored and developed.

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The Puzzle of Perceptual Presence and Imagination

A post by Jonathan Mitchell

One puzzle which has animated philosophers of perception from the classical phenomenologists to the present day sometimes goes under the name of the ‘puzzle of perceptual presence’. Consider the following situation. Sitting in the park, looking at the oak tree opposite, what I seem to see is a complete three-dimensional thing, that is a bounded voluminous object. Yet from where I am sitting, I can only see the side of the tree facing me. Now, one side of a tree does not make a whole tree, and so what I am presented with from where I sit is somehow less than the whole tree. But at the same time, I don’t seem to be seeing a mere tree-façade, as something akin to a stage prop of a tree; much less a mere tree-like surface. What I am visually aware of as I sit there and look at the tree is nothing less than a complete three-dimensional thing, the ‘whole tree’. We can articulate the resulting puzzle more generally as follows: how is it the case that we can enjoy visual experiences as of complete three-dimensional entities given the fact that we are limited to seeing the side or sides facing us from a specific spatial perspective? How are these phenomenological facts to be reconciled?

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On catastrophising: What’s so bad about imagining the worst?

A post by Petronella Randell

Most of us are familiar with catastrophising; either because we do it ourselves, or because someone we know is prone to it. When going through airport security, I often imagine the various ways a smuggler could have concealed something in my bag without my knowing. Is someone with my name on the most wanted list? I wonder what it will be like to be mistakenly interrogated: how will I convince them I’m not Petronella Randell, but Petronella Randell? More prosaically: I don’t remember locking the door to my house. What will happen if the door isn’t locked? It’s easy to imagine all of these things and how awful they will be, typically also neglecting to think about practical steps to take if any of these things actually happen. 

The term ‘catastrophising’ was first coined by Ellis (1962) and was subsequently identified as a cognitive distortion by Beck et al. (1979), though what exactly catastrophising amounts to is less clear. Some say it involves believing that the worst will happen (Leung and Wong, 1998; Yurica and DiTomasso, 2005). Others say catastrophising involves magnifying the severity or probability of bad outcomes (Ellis, 1962; Horsham and Chung, 2013). It may reflect an intolerance of risky prospects (Carleton, Norton, & Asmundson, 2007) or be prompted by continuous ‘what-if?’ questioning of oneself (Davey and Levy, 1998; Meeten et al. 2012; Startup and Davey, 2003). Crucially (for us), it involves imagining the worst. It is an imaginative distortion (Roepke and Seligman, 2016; Torem, 2024).

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Imaginative projects and imaginative success

A post by Nick Wiltsher

Sometimes, you succeed at imagining. Sometimes, you don’t. How do you, we, or anyone work out whether or not you’ve succeeded?

Here’s a simple answer: establish what you were trying to do, and then see if you managed it. This, I think, is basically right, but also less simple than it seems. I’m here going to ramble through some of the complications, with no particular argumentative direction.

Talk of “what you were trying to do” implies that imagining is an intentional action, which in turn suggests that we’re after a description of what action you were intending to perform in imagining.[1] But this formulation is ambiguous, at least once a little bit of dogma has been digested, and both of the disambiguated formulations have surprising aspects.

Suppose I want to do some dancing. But, being a traditional soul, I don’t just want to flail around in a vaguely rhythmical fashion. I want, specifically, to dance the Gay Gordons (let’s assume the willing partner is present). What determines whether I succeed in doing so?

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Come JAM with us! A conference in honor of ten years of The Junkyard

A post by Amy Kind

Way back in 2016, Eric Peterson came to me with an unexpected idea:  What if we started a blog on imagination?  I was intrigued, but also hesitant.  Could we really make it work?  And how, exactly, would it work?  But I started reaching out to some imagination folks, and I got a lot of positive feedback… so we started moving forward with the planning.

And then, on April 3, 2017, The Junkyard published its first post.  As I wrote at the time, the blog’s name was inspired by a comment made by Noel Carroll at the 2015 meeting of the Pacific Division APA.  In his words, imagination is “the junkyard of the mind” – a place where everything gets thrown in.  Amidst the imaginative scrap heap we find such varied things as fiction, pretense, modal epistemology, mindreading, empathy, thought experiments, creativity, delusions, dreams, metaphors, and much more.  As I noted, “this same junkyard is also littered with attempts to understand the nature of imagination,” and while there might be some points of agreement about what imagination is, there are surprisingly many issues where no clear consensus has yet emerged.  But my post – and the decision to start this blog – was underlain by a message of hope…

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When the Mind Goes Blank

A post by Angelica Kaufmann

“Our heart-beats, our breathing, the pulses of our attention, fragments of words or sentences that pass through our imagination, are what people this dim habitat. … In short, empty our minds as we may, some form of changing process remains for us to feel, and cannot be expelled.”

— William James, The Principles of Psychology, Vol. I, Ch. XV, “The Perception of Time,” section “We have no sense for empty time”

Mental life is not always equally full or equally structured. Sometimes thought is busy, vivid, and difficult to interrupt. A useful example is intrusive mental imagery. In conditions such as post-traumatic stress disorder, anxiety disorders, and obsessive-compulsive disorder, intrusive images can be especially vivid, affectively charged, and hard to regulate (Brewin et al., 2010). They show one way in which some conscious experience can become highly salient and difficult to step back from.

But some conscious mental life can also seem to vary in the opposite direction. Sometimes, instead of becoming overly full, it appears to lose structure altogether. Many people recognise the experience: you are reading a page, listening to someone speak, or waiting at a traffic light, and then suddenly realise that your mind seems to have gone blank. Not wandering somewhere else. Not replaying a memory. Not imagining tomorrow’s lunch. Just — nothing.

Or at least, that is how it seems.

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Murdoch's Truth-Seeking Imagination

A post by Idil Çakmur

There is a simplicity to a life without the imagination. An unimaginative person might be frightfully dull, but at least they have a firm footing in reality, while the imaginative person is off in la la land, chasing windmills. The imagination, we are ordinarily inclined to think, might make things more interesting, but it does not bring us closer to the truth. It instead traps us in a dreamland of our own making.

This is where Iris Murdoch begins to disagree: “we use our imagination not to escape the world”, she writes, “but to join it, and this exhilarates us because of the distance between our ordinary dulled consciousness and an apprehension of the real” (EM 374). When we consider the role of the imagination within her broader moral philosophy, it is clear that becoming more imaginative is a moral imperative.

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Leibniz’s ‘Logic of the Imagination’

A post by Lloyd Strickland

Philosophers have traditionally drawn a sharp boundary between the province of imagination and that of logic (see for example Malebranche 1997, 87-195; Spinoza 2002, 267-268). While logic is austere, rule-governed, and abstract, imagination is vivid, associative, and often unruly. If imagination has a place in philosophy at all, it is usually as a source of examples, heuristics, or perhaps error, not as something that could itself be subject to logic (but see Berto and Jago 2019, especially chapter 8; Canavotto, Berto, and Giordani 2020; Özgün and Schoonen 2022).

Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646—1716) disrupts this familiar contrast in a striking way. When outlining ‘universal mathesis’, a hypothetical higher order science of quantities and qualities, Leibniz describes it as ‘the science of imaginable things’ (2026b, 505) and goes so far as to call it ‘the logic of the imagination’ (2026b, 509). Leibniz is not saying here that imagination itself can be turned into a science, but rather is marking out a class of objects that fall under imagination—figures, magnitudes, forms, quantities, and their relations—yet can still be treated exactly. The ‘logic of the imagination’ is the logic proper to such objects.

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Beyond constraints: value-guided vs. unguided imagining

A post by Julia Langkau

Suppose you are preparing for a difficult conversation with a friend. You imagine how the exchange might unfold: what you might say, how your friend might respond, and how the conversation could end. As you do so, your imagination is constrained by what you believe about the world: you picture the actual situation, the personalities involved, and the kinds of things the friend will likely say. But your attention is also directed by what you care about: fairness, honesty, or empathic understanding. These values shape which possibilities you consider, which ones you ignore, and which ones don’t even come to your mind. You focus on ways of speaking that are respectful or constructive, and you avoid imagining saying things that would feel cruel or unjust. Your imaginative process is guided by moral values.

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Imaginative Metaethics

A post by Luke Roelofs

What if the philosophy of imagination held the key to moral objectivity? That idea was what drew me into the sub-field in the first place, and now I’ve gone and published a book making the case at some length. The book is called Empathic Reason: Imagination, Morality, and the Minds of Others, and Amy and Eric have very kindly allowed me to take up a spot in The Junkyard to lay out its core idea: a metaethical theory I’ve taken to calling ‘empathic rationalism.’ 

The starting point of empathic rationalism is the fairly familiar idea of a connection between altruism and something called “empathy”. Seeing things from someone else’s perspective by imagining ourselves in their situation seems to be connected to wanting to improve that situation. This sort of link between imagination and morality has been discussed by many philosophers, most famously Smith (1759/1976) and Hume (1751/1975) under the heading of “sympathy”. And I think it has an undeniable appeal as a basis for morality, because it seems to get the focus in the right place: other people. I should treat others fairly and kindly, not because of a divine command or a mysterious non-natural fact or the formal requirements of logical consistency, but because of something about them. The way we represent others – as the centers of their own worlds, and not just objects within ours – has always struck me as the right place to look for understanding our obligations to them. 

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Fission-Fusion Imagination for Freedom of Thought, Ethics and AI

A post by Miranda Anderson

Understanding imagination as something that is not merely brain-bound or individualistic can help to expand our ambitions for the development of technologies including artificial intelligence. Constraints in our intelligence, including our imaginative capacities, have been associated by Richard Gregory with constraints in our technologies; on his view, human intelligence is largely artificial intelligence because of the ways in which our technologies act as ‘mind tools’ that augment onboard biological capacities (1981).

There is a glitch between our recognising the crises underway in the twenty-first century – and doing something about them –  at the heart of which is the blinkering and harnessing of our imaginations. Paul Gilroy argues that online filtering of information weakens our imaginations generating a sense of apathy and loss of hope (2025). Narrow and corporate control of current technological developments exploit and worsen the perceived diminution of the meaning of our lives, eroding the will to challenge it. Ironically these technological aims and methods are propagated by our fellow human beings who thereby exhibit the truncation of imagination they implant in others. Even in the narrowest sphere of self-interest their activities are self-harming and undermine the security and thriving of the earth on which they along with all of us live.

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Imagination-Oriented Design

A post by Monika Dunin-Kozicka

Imagine the School of Imagination. If you attended such a school, you would engage in various imagination exercises and assignments every day—so that your imaginative skills could be enhanced. Among the daily exercises (performed on a regular basis) would be one called the Prompt: if a student spotted particular objects anywhere in the school—such as a purple chair, a pompom, a standalone door handle, and so on—they would be required to perform specific imaginings assigned to these objects. For example, upon suddenly noticing a pompom, one would have to stop and focus on imagining it growing larger and larger, until it ultimately (imaginatively) touches the very student performing the exercise. But beyond such prompts, which would be randomly distributed and regularly rearranged throughout the school, there would be many other objects and tools designed to support the imaginative growth of the students. The School of Imagination would be specifically designed to enable a wide range of imaginative actions.

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Acting, the Imagination, and Performance

A post by Bruce G. Shapiro

"There are two requisites in every systematic treatise: the author must first define his subject, and secondly, though this is really more important, he must show us how and by what means we may reach the goal ourselves."

Longinus, On the Sublime 

The two roles

The imagination plays two significant roles in stage acting. One role occupies rehearsal, where the actor imagines sensory experiences to create afferent data that informs their imagination. The second role occupies dramatic performance, where the actor's informed imagination efferently turns into a spontaneous appearance before an audience.

Trópos and opsis. In the Poetics, Aristotle used two concepts that describe these two roles: trópos, meaning a turn or change, and opsis, meaning face or appearance. As a transitional concept, trópos refers to the playwright's process of turning a drama into a playscript, and the actors' rehearsal process of turning the playscript's imagery into imagined sensory experiences. Opsis refers generally to the actors' performance of the drama before an audience. But the term literally means the drama's spontaneous appearance in a performance by actors, whose imaginations create the spontaneity.

Transition. The turn from rehearsal to performance is neither the natural consequence nor the effortless result of the rehearsal process. Rehearsal only leads up to the liminal frontier between it and the creation of a performance, which must be wholly the work of the imagination in the sudden presence of an audience.

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Imagination without Imagery: The challenge of aphantasia

A post by Georgina Brighouse

Can you imagine a bright red apple sitting on a table? Or a sunset over the ocean with orange and pink clouds?

These are examples of imagistic imagination. Visual mental imagery, in these examples, is essential to imagination.

A popular view of imagination is that mental imagery is a necessary requirement for all forms of imagination. Classical theories have often assumed that imagination depends crucially on imagery (e.g., Aristotle 1968, 428a1-2; Hume, 1739/2007), and contemporary philosophers have continued this line of thought.

Amy Kind defends an imagery-essentialist account of imagination. On her view, imagery serves as the ‘paint’ of the imagination (2001, p. 33). Just like paint captures the object of the painting, imagery captures the object of the imagining. Further, she argues that the experiential aspect of imagination – the ‘what-it’s-likeness’ – can only be explained by invoking mental imagery.

Bence Nanay also argues that, whilst imagination and imagery are distinct, the former necessarily depends on the latter (Nanay, 2023a, 2023b). Imagination is something we do, a (typically) voluntary action, whereas mental imagery can be involuntary, such as in flashbacks or earworms (Nanay, 2023a, p. 165). Nanay claims that imagery is necessarily triggered automatically during an imaginative episode.

Such accounts essentially claim that without imagery, one cannot have imagination. This view of imagination does have some intuitive appeal: many everyday cases of imagination do tend to feel similar to perceptual experiences. When one imagines a friend’s face or a scene from a novel, there seems to be something pictorial about the experience.

However, recent reports on aphantasia, a diminished or complete absence of capacity for imagery, presents a significant challenge to this view.

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Two Sources of Imaginative Pleasure

A post by Vincenzo Grasso

“Emma was not sleeping, she was pretending to be asleep; and while he dozed off next to her, she would grow more wakeful, dreaming other dreams. [...] Often, from the top of a mountain, they suddenly caught sight of splendid city with domes, bridges, ships, groves of lemon trees, and cathedrals of white marble on whose sharp steeples storks were nesting. [...] And then, one evening, they would arrive at a village of fishermen, where brown nets were drying in the wind along the cliff and the line of shanties. It was here that they would stay and make a life for themselves; they would live in a low house, with a flat roof, shaded by a palm tree, at the far end of a bay, by the edge of the sea. ”

(Flaubert 2010/1857, pp. 171-172)

Emma Bovary, in the grip of her torment, finds comfort in imagining pleasant scenes, often, as is well known, in the company of her favourite novels, or else, as in the passage quoted above, on her own. The imaginative pleasure Emma seeks is, however, to be understood as a maladaptive response, symptomatic of a profound dissatisfaction with her life. At the same time, we should not make the mistake of thinking that this pleasure is always tied to dangerous forms of escapism or wishful thinking. Taking pleasure in imagination is, after all, extremely common. On a tedious afternoon at work, we may take pleasure in imagining ourselves on a beach, lulled by the sound of the waves and the coolness of the breeze. In the absence of a loved one, we may comfort ourselves by calling up a representation of their face. Or again, after visiting the church of Santa Maria della Vittoria in Rome, one might try to prolong the pleasure once felt before the sculptural beauty of the Ecstasy of Saint Teresa by reconstructing it in imagination.

How should we identify the source of such imaginative pleasure? One possible answer is to locate the pleasure in the content of the mental act: what is pleasurable about my imagining is a content that would itself be pleasurable to perceive. Since sensory imagination preserves, at least in part, the phenomenal character of the perceptual experience it aims to capture, it seems plausible to say that, in cases where one takes pleasure in imagining, this is because the content itself is something one would enjoy experiencing perceptually. One would no doubt take even greater pleasure in actually being on a beach, or in the company of a loved one, or before the Ecstasy of Saint Teresa; but in their absence, why not settle for imagining?

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Models in Suspension: Imagination and the Structure of Scientific Understanding

A post by Ana Elisa Ulloa Labariega

Imagine a mobile—the kind that hangs above a child’s bed. Glass figures suspended at different lengths, each positioned in relation to the others. The structure is not arbitrary: it has been built to support those particular elements, with their specific weights, distances, and tensions. At the same time, the structure itself takes shape in relation to what it is meant to hold; frame and elements are not fully independent, but emerge together as a single configuration.

For a moment, everything holds together. Each figure moves slightly, but never entirely on its own. Its motion is shaped by the others, and by the frame that sustains them all. In other words, the range of movement is delimited by the possibilities given by the whole.

But the balance is conditional.

If one figure becomes heavier, the strings must adjust. If new elements are added, the structure must redistribute tension. Changes are possible, but only up to a point. Once something shifts, it cannot simply be undone: it can only be rebalanced. At the same time there are limits to what it can sustain. At some point, the configuration no longer holds: the system strains, distorts, and eventually breaks. Pieces fall to the ground. Some may remain intact, but the mobile as it was—and the structure that held it together—cannot be recovered.

Scientific models, I want to suggest, are more like this than we usually admit.

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