#Binge Reviewing my previous Reads # The most “difficult” works ever written
When I first turned the pages of Umberto Eco’s *The Open Work*, the effect was startling: it felt like the author had carved a crack in the frame of art itself, letting in ambiguous light, multiple voices, possible futures. In the distance I heard echoes of ancient Indian thought, of the Upanishadic sages whispering *“Tat Tvam Asi”* — “That thou art” — a Mahāvākya affirming countless identities in unity. The *Open Work* insists that any work of art is similarly alive: never quite closed, always in the process of becoming through its audience, its interpreter, its context. Eco does not merely theorize openness. He summons it.
Eco’s notion of openness is not chaos but tension: between control and chance, between authorial intention and interpretive freedom, between structure and variation. He uses examples from modern music (Stockhausen, Boulez), avant-garde literature, drama, visual art—works that allow or even demand the performer, the reader, the viewer to complete or re-shape them. The work is offered, but not fixed. It remains unfinished in vital ways.
Yet this openness is not license for anything to go; it is controlled openness. The artist designs slots, thresholds, indeterminacies; the reader or spectator enters, fills, shifts. For Eco, an open work expands resonance and echo without destroying the identity of the work: “the form of the work of art gains its aesthetic validity precisely in proportion to the number of different perspectives from which it can be viewed and understood.”
In reading this now, I’m haunted by the Vedic hymn: “Let noble thoughts come to us from all sides” (Ṛg Veda). Just as the Vedas invite multiplicity of thought, Eco invites multiplicity of perception. A truly open work is one from which many trajectories emanate; trajectories not pre-dictated but permitted, shaped by what is given.
And yet it has its limits—edges, rules, authorial frame. Because Eco insists that openness is meaningful only when there is some measure of constraint; when the openness does not erase the work’s specificity. The poet or composer does not simply abdicate but orients. The openness is “world intended by the author,” even if mediated through performance.
I think about Shakespeare: Prospero’s art, in *The Tempest*, conjures illusions, actors, spirits; then he says *“This rough magic I here abjure”*. There is an echo here: magic, art, illusion—that wonderful ambiguity Eco celebrates—and yet Prospero must eventually draw boundaries. To create, and to let go. To permit illusion and authorize its end. Eco’s open work is similarly magical; but the magician doesn’t vanish. The frame remains visible even as the spectacle shifts.
Milton’s voice resonates, too. In *Paradise Lost*, when he writes, *“Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell”*, Satan voices the idea that the condition of self is both site of oppression and rebellion; as though outward constraints echo inward ones. Eco’s works teach us that interpretation is never just external; how we receive shapes what the work becomes.
The work is open in space, in time, in perception. Yet those openings risk being traps if there is no structure. Because unbounded openness is equally totalitarian: chaos masquerading as freedom. Eco’s power is in the balance—controlled indeterminacy.
At several points, Eco draws attention to how in modern times the openness of the work mirrors social openness and uncertainty. Traditional works were closed: fixed narrative, fixed form, clear codes. But modernity, with its scientific revolutions, its quantum indeterminacies, its relativities, its experiments, demands art that reflects its own indeterminacies. The open work becomes not merely a style but a condition.
The spectator is no longer passive. The reader is no longer simply recipient of meaning—they must participate, choose, interpret, even err. And every error becomes a mode of becoming. Just like Upanishadic wisdom that the Self sees itself in all beings, that *Atman is Brahman*, so in *The Open Work* the reader sees parts of themselves, worldviews, histories refracted in the work.
I remember walking through a gallery once, encountering an installation that invited audience movement; shadows shifted; what one saw depended on where one stood. That kind of spatial-participation is what Eco anticipates. Like the Kena Upanishad’s teaching: *“That which cannot be expressed by speech, but by which speech is expressed — That alone know as Brahman and not that which people here worship.”* The unsayable, the condition of speech, the frame that makes variation possible – Eco’s open work plays in those spaces. The silence between notes; the blank spaces between words; the unspoken possibilities.
Yet the invented openness has demands. Eco is insistent: if a work is open, its openness must be designed; there must be structure that allows indeterminacy without collapse. Otherwise the work ceases to be itself. It risks being mere formlessness. He calls this “controlled disorder.” It’s like designing a garden so wild that butterflies multiply, but still knowing where the paths lie. Or like the open grammar of Pāṇini: his sutras permit massive generativity, but within system. His grammar is enormously generative; yet one cannot arbitrarily violate the rules and still be speaking Sanskrit. That mix of freedom and constraint, that generative precision, is what Eco’s open work aspires to in art.
In one passage, Eco notes that in a musical open piece, the composer gives groupings or modules from which the performer can choose ordering, tempo, emphasis. The composer anticipates many possible performances.
Each actual performance completes the work. But no performance exhausts it. So every realization is both fulfillment and novelty. Much as in Indian ritual, where the Vedas are recited but each recital, each voice, each listener modifies the dimension of meaning. The sound is the same, but the echo in the heart differs. Or as a Shakuntala could be performed in many theatres, by many voices, each breathing new life into the text. The actor who plays King Lear in 21st century Kolkata brings different inflections, histories, class, accent, politics, and the play changes—but Lear remains Lear.
Shakespeare in *King Lear* says, “Nothing will come of nothing: speak again.” Lear demands essence, demand meaning. Eco’s open work says: there is something in nothing, because “nothing” or silence, blankness, indeterminacy is itself pregnant with potential. We don’t need fullness to mean; sometimes gaps do more work.
Sometimes what is not said, the pauses between movements, the intervals between musical phrases, the blank spaces in a poem have meaning precisely because they are gaps. Shakespeare’s Prospero elsewhere, in *The Tempest*, when he watches his creations and illusions, all “actors … melted into air, into thin air”—yet, even melted, they leave shadow, possibility. So the open work leaves traces, residues, shadows of series of possible forms.
The power of *The Open Work* feels especially alive in our global moment. In a world of streaming platforms, remix culture, user-generated content, fan fictions, virtual reality installations, interactive art, augmented reality, we live inside openness.
The frame, the software, the app, the algorithm — these are the boundaries. Within them, users, readers, viewers, players complete the work. Eco was ahead of his time: he sees that the author’s intention cannot be the only arbiter of a work’s identity; that historical, cultural, perceptual contexts matter. Yet he will not let the author vanish. The author is designer of possibilities, not tyrant of meanings.
I reflect on a Vedic phrase: “Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam” (“the world is one family”) from the Mahā Upanishad. This teaching embraces openness: recognition that difference is part of wholeness. Eco’s work is an aesthetic reflection of that: different interpretations, different perspectives, different times, different cultures—all belonging to the life of the work.
The open work does not fragment identity; it affirms multiplicity as belonging, as participation. In Eco’s model, a poem, a painting, a musical score, even a film, is like that world-family: its possible manifestations are many, yet each participates in the same being of the work.
Milton’s solemn voice in *Paradise Lost*—“What in me is dark illumine, what is low raise and support” — could serve as a prayer poster for Eco’s artist. The desire to illuminate what is left in shadow; to raise what is held down; to support ambiguity rather than flatten it. The open work invites us to attend to what’s low, hidden, devil-ish, marginal. Not to remove difference, but to make difference audible, visible, meaningful. Milton asks us to bear the darkness; Eco’s open work shows that darkness is not just absence but space for possibility.
Sometimes the open work also reveals its own limits. The audience might misunderstand, misploit, misappropriate. Interpretive abuses happen. Translations, remixes, adaptations can toss the work away from its world of origin. Eco knows this risk. He insists on the “world intended by the author” — that although many completions are possible, they must lie within fields the author has shaped: motifs, tones, openings, constraints.
The intention doesn’t fix a single meaning, but it frames many. Without frame, the openness becomes noise. Without openness, the frame becomes tyranny.
When I think of Eco as a young scholar, reading him felt like entering a labyrinth of mirrors: every reflection slightly different. I felt exhilarated and anxious: what if my reading is “wrong”? But that was the point: Eco makes us live with the risk, with the indeterminacy.
With openness we’re asked to accept that a work’s meaning is never final; it lives beyond us, beyond its first author. Each reading, each performance, each translation, each adaptation renews it. And sometimes, unexpectedly, the renewal reveals tensions between cultures. An Indian staging of Beckett, or a Bollywood adaptation of Shakespeare, or an open-ended film shown on TikTok — all illustrate that a work has lives I may neither foresee nor control.
It reminds me of the Upanishadic line: “You are what your deep, driving desire is. As your desire is, so is your will. As your will is, so is your deed. As your deed is, so is your destiny.” (Brihadaranyaka IV.4.5) — the reader’s desire shapes the reception; will shapes interpretation; deed is performance; the destiny is the life of the work. And the work’s openings are not empty; they are full with those desires, wills, deeds.
Eco also deals with the dialectic of completeness and incompleteness. A closed classical work aims for a finished form; an open modern work accepts incompleteness as part of its identity. This sounds like Milton’s invocation in *Paradise Lost*—“they also serve who only stand and wait.” The open work sometimes waits: for interpretation, for performance, for context. It may sit unfinished, or await its audience, or even its future audience. That incompleteness doesn’t shame it; it dignifies it.
The aesthetics of the open work thus becomes ethics. How one treats interpretation, how one marshals openness, how an artist frames constraints—these are moral choices. Just as the Upanishads draw attention to the hidden inner self, to the heart where “the little space within the heart is as great as the vast universe” (Upanishads) — so Eco asks: what is the inner space of the work, its heart of openness? The one which houses many universes of meaning? That space matters; how one honours it matters.
Toward the end, I believe *The Open Work* functions less like a theory to master and more like a ritual to live. It teaches us to embrace ambiguity; to see authorship as partial; to see art, literature, music as dialogues across time, culture, perception. It makes us tremble before the frame, and with gratitude before the gaps.
In the end, the open work invites a community: readers, viewers, interpreters, artists—they become co-creators without replacing the origin. Like Shakespeare’s famous line, “We are such stuff as dreams are made on” (*The Tempest*) — our interpretations, our readings, our performances are dreams that shape the substance of art; Dream-stuff, but real. And Milton’s echo: “For man to speak and tell of wonders done / … is but a tale” — yet such tales tell worlds.
*The Open Work* endures not because it tells us how to read once and finish; it endures because it gives us ways to read always, ways to open, ways to shape. It is less artifact than event, less statement than invitation. It is a book to return to when the world feels too settled, when one’s own perception feels boxed in. And when one returns, one finds new cracks, new openings, new echoes.