The question concerning the subject (What is a subject?) — the question concerning art, the question concerning writing, the question concerning philosophy (What is art? What is writing? What is philosophy?) must open itself to the question of blindness. It is as if there were a subject — as if there were art, writing, philosophy — only as this experience. It is clear that the subject is blind. It does not see without not seeing, without being blind in relation to the visible which keeps contact with the invisible. Seeing is seeing of the invisible; what is seen only marks the boundaries of an enveloping invisibility which coincides with the (itself invisible) visibility of the visible. The subject includes an intimacy with invisibility which, as the abyssal ground of the visible, remains the necessarily missed target of its seeing. The question concerning the subject implies the question concerning its place in the order of the visible, concerning its position in the domain of constituted reality. Obviously, the subject is placed up against the wall of the invisible. It sees without seeing. By supposing that it sees, it brings forth an entire world of the invisible. Like its act of existing, the movements of writing and painting are catastrophic. They owe their continuity to the discontinuity of encounters with the incommensurable, which is the space of the subject’s ontological blindness. At the edges of this space, the subject seeks a language without being able to appropriate it, without being its owner. Instead of being owner of its language, the subject is taken into possession by the catastrophic movement of writing, by a language. “What happens when you write without seeing anything?” asks Jacques Derrida at one point. There is no writing that is unrelated to the invisible. One cannot write without blindness or: one writes necessarily “with eyes closed” (Hélène Cixous).