Writing, a formalised offshoot of picture-making, and verbalised vocal communication have, of course, been developed as our major means of transmitting and recording information, but they have also been utilised as vehicles for aesthetic exploration on an enormous scale. The intricate elaboration of our ancestral grunts and squeaks into complex symbolic speech has enabled us to sit and ‘play’ with thoughts in our heads, and to manipulate our (primarily instructional) word sequences to new ends as aesthetic, experimental play-things.
So, in all these spheres—in painting, sculpture, drawing, music, singing, dancing, gymnastics, games, sports, writing and speech—we can carry on to our heart’s content, all through our long lives, complex and specialised forms of exploration and experiment. Through elaborate training, both as performers and observers, we can sensitise our responsiveness to the immense exploratory potential that these pursuits have to offer. If we set aside the secondary functions of these activities (the making of money, gaining of status, and so forth), then they all emerge, biologically, either as the extension into adult life of infantile play-patterns, or as the superimposition on to adult information communication systems of ‘play-rules’.
These rules can be stated as follows: (1) you shall investigate the unfamiliar until it has become familiar; (2) you shall impose rhythmic repetition on the familiar; (3) you shall vary this repetition in as many ways as possible; (4) you shall select the most satisfying of these variations and develop these at the expense of others; (5) you shall combine and recombine these variations one with another; and (6) you shall do all this for its own sake, as an end in itself.
These principles apply from one end of the scale to the other, whether you are considering an infant playing in the sand, or a composer working on a symphony.
The last rule is particularly important. Exploratory behaviour also plays a role in the basic survival patterns of feeding, fighting, mating and the rest. But there it is confined to the early appetitive phases of the activity sequences and is geared to their special demands. For many species of animals it is no more than this. There is no exploration for exploration’s sake. But, amongst the higher mammals and to a supreme extent in ourselves, it has become emancipated as a distinct, separate drive. Its function is to provide us with as subtle and complex an awareness of the world around us, and of our own capacities in relation to it, as possible. This awareness is not heightened in the specific contexts of the basic survival goals, but in generalized terms. What we acquire in this way can then be applied anywhere, at any time, in any context.
I have omitted the growth of science and technology from this discussion because it has largely been concerned with specific improvements in the methods employed in achieving the basic survival goals, such as fighting (weapons), feeding (agriculture), nest-building (architecture) and comfort (medicine). It is interesting, though, that as time has gone by and the technical developments have become more and more interlocked with one another, the pure exploratory urge has also invaded the scientific sphere. Scientific research—the very name ‘re-search’ gives the game away (and I mean game)—operates very much on the play-principles mentioned earlier. In ‘pure’ research, the scientist uses his imagination in virtually the same way as the artist. He talks of a beautiful experiment rather than of an expedient one. Like the artist, he is concerned with exploration for exploration’s sake. If the results of the studies prove to be useful in the context of some specific survival goal, all to the good, but this is secondary.
In all exploratory behaviour, whether artistic or scientific, there is the ever-present battle between the neophilic and neophobic urges. The former drives us on to new experiences, makes us crave for novelty. The latter holds us back, makes us take refuge in the familiar. We are constantly in a state of shifting balance between the conflicting attractions of the exciting new stimulus and the friendly old one. If we lost our neophilia we would stagnate. If we lost our neophobia, we would rush headlong into disaster. This state of conflict does not merely account for the more obvious fluctuations in fashions and fads, in hair-styles and clothing, in furniture and cars; it is also the very basis of our whole cultural progression. We explore and we retrench, we investigate and we stabilise. Step by step we expand our awareness and understanding both of ourselves and of the complex environment we live in.
Before leaving this topic there is one final, special aspect of exploratory behaviour that cannot go unmentioned. It concerns a critical phase of social play during the infantile period. When it is very young, the infant’s social play is directed primarily at the parents, but as it grows the emphasis is shifted from them towards other children of the same age. The child becomes a member of a juvenile ‘play group’. This is a critical step in its development. As an exploratory involvement it has far-reaching effects on the later life of the individual. Of course, all forms of exploration at this tender age have long-term consequences—the child that fails to explore music or painting will find these subjects difficult as an adult but person-to-person play contacts are even more critical than the rest. An adult coming to music, say, for the first time, without childhood exploration of the subject behind him, may find it difficult, but not impossible. A child that has been severely sheltered from social contact as a member of a play group, on the other hand, will always find himself badly hampered in his adult social interactions. Experiments with monkeys have revealed that not only does isolation in infancy produce a socially withdrawn adult, but it also creates an anti-sexual and anti-parental individual. Monkeys that were reared in isolation from other youngsters failed to participate in play-group activities when exposed to them later, as older juveniles. Although the isolates were physically healthy and had grown well in their solitary states, they were quite incapable of joining in the general rough and tumble. Instead they crouched, immobile, in the corner of the play-room, usually clasping their bodies tightly with their arms, or covering their eyes. When they matured, again as physically healthy specimens, they showed no interest in sexual partners. If forcibly mated, female isolates produced offspring in the normal way, but then proceeded to treat them as though they were huge parasites crawling on their bodies. They attacked them, drove them away, and either killed them or ignored them.
Similar experiments with young chimpanzees showed that, in this species, with prolonged rehabilitation and special care it was possible to undo, to some extent, this behavioural damage, but, even so, overprotected children will always suffer in adult social contacts. This is especially important in the case of only children, where the absence of siblings sets them at a serious initial disadvantage. If they do not experience the socializing effects of the rough-and-tumble of the juvenile play groups, they are liable to remain shy and withdrawn for the rest of their lives, find sexual pairbonding difficult or impossible and, if they do manage to become parents, will make bad ones.
From this it is clear that the rearing process has two distinct phases—an early, inward turning one and a later, outward turning one. They are both vitally important and we can learn a great deal about them from monkey behaviour. During the early phase the infant is loved, rewarded and protected by the mother. It comes to understand security. In the later phase it is encouraged to be more outward-going, to participate in social contacts with other juveniles. The mother becomes less loving and restricts her protective acts to moments of serious panic or alarm, when outside dangers threaten the colony. She may now actually punish the growing offspring if it persists in clinging to her hairy apron-strings in the absence of serious panic. It now comes to understand and accept its growing independence.
The situation should be basically the same for offspring of our own species. If either of these basic phases is parentally mishandled, the child will be in serious trouble in later life. If it has lacked the early security phase, but has been suitably active in the independence phase, it will find making new social contacts easy enough, but will be unable to maintain them or make any real depth of contact. If it has enjoyed great security in the early phase, but has been over-protected later on, it will find making new adult contacts immensely difficult and will tend to ding desperately to old ones.
We take a closer look at the more extreme cases of social withdrawal, we can witness anti-exploratory behaviour in its most extreme and characteristic form. Severely withdrawn individuals may become socially inactive, but they are far from physically inactive. They become preoccupied with repetitive stereotypes. For hour after hour they rock or sway, nod or shake, twirl or twitch, or clasp and unclasp themselves. They may suck their thumbs, or other parts of their bodies, pinch themselves, make strange and repetitive expressions, or tap or roll small objects rhythmically. We all exhibit ‘tics’ of this sort occasionally, but for them it becomes a major and prolonged form of physical expression. What happens is that they find the environment so threatening, social contacts so frightening and impossible, that they seek comfort and reassurance by super-familiarising their behaviour. The rhythmic repetition of an act renders it increasingly familiar and ‘safe’. Instead of performing a wide variety of heterogeneous activities, the withdrawn individual sticks to the few he knows best. For him the old saying: ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained’ has been re-written: ‘Nothing ventured, nothing lost.’
I have already mentioned the comforting regressive qualities of the heart beat rhythm, and this applies here, too. Many of the patterns seem to operate at about heart beat speed, but even those that do not, still act as ‘comforters’ by virtue of their superfamiliarity achieved from constant repetition. It has been noticed that socially retarded individuals increase their stereotypes when put into a strange room. This fits in with the ideas expressed here. The increased novelty of the environment heightens the neophobic fears, and heavier demands are made on the comforting devices to counteract this.
The more a stereotype is repeated, the more it becomes like an artificially produced, maternal heartbeat. Its ‘friendliness’ increases and increases until it becomes virtually irreversible. Even if the extreme neophobia causing it can be removed (which is difficult enough), the stereotype may go twitching on. As I said, socially adjusted individuals also exhibit these ‘tics’ from time to time. Usually they occur in stress situations and here, too, they act as comforters. We know all the signs. The executive awaiting a vital phone call taps or drums on his desk; the woman in the doctor’s waiting room, clasps and unclasps her fingers around her handbag; the embarrassed child swings its body left and right, left and right; the expectant father paces back and forth; the student in the exam sucks his pencil; the anxious officer strokes his moustache. In moderation these little anti-exploratory devices are useful. They help us to tolerate the anticipated ‘novelty overdose’. If used to excess, however, there is always the danger that they will become irreversible and obsessive, and will persist even when not called for. Stereotypes also crop up in situations of extreme boredom. This can be seen very dearly in zoo animals as well as in our own species. It can sometimes reach frightening proportions. What happens here is that the captive animals would make social contacts if only they had the chance, but they are physically prevented from doing so. The situation is basically the same as in cases of social withdrawal. The restricted environment of the zoo cage blocks their social contacts and forces them into a situation of social withdrawal. The cage-bars are a solid, physical equivalent of the psychological barriers facing the socially withdrawn individual. They constitute a powerful anti-exploratory device and, left with nothing to explore, the zoo animal begins to express itself in the only way possible, by developing rhythmic stereotypes. We are all familiar with the repetitive pacing to and fro of the caged animal, but this is only one of the many strange patterns that arise. Stylised masturbation may occur. Sometimes this no longer involves manipulation of the penis. The animal (usually a monkey) simply makes the back and forth masturbatory movements of its arm and hand, but without actually touching the penis. Some female monkeys repeatedly suck their own nipples. Young animals suck their paws. Chimpanzees may prod pieces of straw into their (previous healthy) ears. Elephants nod their heads for hours on end. Certain creatures repeatedly bite themselves, or pull their own hair out. Serious self-mutilation may occur. Some of these responses are given in stressful situations, but many of them are simply reactions to boredom. When there is no variability in the environment the exploratory urge stagnates.
Simply by looking at an isolated animal performing one of these stereotypes it is impossible to know for certain what is causing the behaviour. It may be boredom, or it may be stress. If it is stress it may be the result of the immediate environmental situation, or it may be a long-term phenomenon stemming from an abnormal upbringing: A few simple experiments can give us the answer. When a strange object is placed in the cage, if the stereotypes disappear and exploration begins, then they were obviously being caused by boredom. If the stereotypes increase, however, then they were being caused by stress. If they persist after the introduction of other members of the same species, producing a normal social environment, then the individual with the stereotypes has almost certainly had an abnormally isolated infancy.
All these zoo peculiarities can be seen in our own species (perhaps because we have designed our zoos so much like our cities). They should be a lesson to us, reminding us of the enormous importance of achieving a good balance between our neophobic and neophilic tendencies. If we do not have this, we cannot function properly. Our nervous systems will do the best they can for us, but the results will always be a travesty of our true behavioural potentials.