A mirror made of water

Our ability to recognize our own image has fascinated philosophers and psychologist for centuries. Let us just consider the legend of Narcissus, the young beautiful hunter that, seen himself reflected on a pool, and failing to recognize himself, became so strongly enamored of the face he saw that he could not stop looking at it, so he never moved again and eventually died at the same spot. Had he only realized that the face was his own, he could have followed a normal life just enjoying the pleasure of looking at himself anytime he wanted. But then the myth would have been different.

The case of Narcissus is obviously pathological, since we recent studies have showed that babies as young as 3 months old have different responses to their own reflection in a mirror and to another baby, indicating that they actually able to recognize themselves. For years the standard test for self-recognition was red spot test, where the subject is painted with an ostensible mark on their face and, some time later, exposed to a mirror where they should correlate the spot that their image bears with a spot on their own face and try to clean it, but it has been debated that the subject might not feel compelled to do so even if they recognize the face as their own. Surprisingly, this ability is not exclusively human, since there are a number of primates and other animal who have responded positively to this kind of test.

Photo: Bernard Spragg. NZ

However, the self recognition is not limited to the face: we are also aware (although perhaps not so acutely) of our own posture and even our facial and bodily gestures. In fact it has happened to me more than once that, looking into a dark space or a narrow passageway I have startled myself after recognizing my own distant reflection in a mirror. The same happens with old blurry photographs, were we are much better at recognizing ourselves even when hour faces are not visible.

One natural extension of this ability of self-recognition is the recognition of your group. This generalization indubitably developed hundred of thousands of years ago when our ancestors lived in small bands, where they not only had to identify each individual but also estimate the similarity of members of other groups whenever they run into them: people with similar features were more likely to be able to understand their language than those with greater differences. In fact, this kind of signaling has been transported through history in the shape of uniforms and formal dress rules: giving two soldiers the same uniform automatically meant that they should fight side by side and not with one another, even if they do not look alike. The same applies to urban bands and social classes, where the clothes they wear signify their belonging to a certain group or a total lack of affiliation.

In some cases the signs of recognition are not permanently displayed and have been replaced by sequences of motions to be performed at certain moments. The military salute or the complex hand shakes used by some urban groups are just a temporary indication of the group you belong to. If the salute is not adequate or if you miss a fist bump at the wrong moment your are instantly identified as an impostor.

But our pattern recognition ability goes well beyond the social signaling and extends to every environment. For instance, we are extremely well trained at recognizing faces, not only humans but every kind of face, sometimes even at the cost of deceiving ourselves. This is the case of some world-famous pareidolias, where natural formations or objects designed with a purely functional intent seem to display a face or even express some emotion. The same applies to the spots on the pandas or the orcas, which are often visually interpreted, giving the animals disproportionately big eyes and thus considering them almost as babies. In a similar line, dog owners might be familiar with the impression that their dog is smiling at them even if they physically do not have the muscles to do so.

The identification of babies is another perceptual bias that goes widely beyond the limits of societies and even species. It is almost impossible to avoid a warm fuzzy feeling when seeing a newborn puppy in all its clumsy big-headed plumpness. Or the frail almost stick-like frame of horse or giraffe foals, plagued by insecurity and in constant search for support of their mother.

However, the reason why I have written all of the above is to reflect on how we recognize the act of playing. It is a basic part of growing up to simulate activities in safe environments where we know for a fact that nothing bad will happen even if we fail to perform, and in that sense it is easy to understand how the lion cubs fight in play in preparation for the real fights that, in the future, might determine if they get to mate or just left outside the pride. Most primates also display playful behavior as a means for socializing, where there are no hierarchical disputes to be settled just to maintain a relationship.

But the most astonishing type of play that I have ever seen is that of dolphins. Last week we took a short trip on a motor yacht to try to see marine life in the wild and we ran into a group of four dolphins that stayed with us for twenty minutes or more. On top of the sleek glistening colors of their skin, the most remarkable was the way they played together: contrary to the play of dogs, frequently focused either on fetching or being scratched by their humans, dolphins seemed to swim around one another just for the fun of it, in a way that reminded me unmistakably of my own children playing at the beach in the shallow waters. They turned and twisted around one another, looking for the reaction of their partners, and I am not embarrassed to say that they truly seemed almost human, certainly close enough to confirm that these are intelligent animals and not just plain ol' fish.

After some minutes of delightful observation, the captain throttled the boat a bit and it was wondrous to see the dolphins swim just ahead of the bow, jumping in and out of the water as if they were playing hide and seek. But then Karen noticed the barely audible chirping of the dolphins and that almost transfixed me: hearing their conversation, even if it was not understandable to me was a really emotional experience, almost like seeing myself reflected on the surface of the sea.

I had always been fond of dolphins on a theoretical level, opposing their hunting and worried about the occasions where they get caught in the fishing nets or show up stranded, but since last week the relationship has turned somewhat more personal. They feel now almost like a far-removed cousin or a house pet, to the point that people trying to harm them or to damage their environment seem heartless and evil. I cannot guarantee that the experience would be equally revealing for everyone, but it is still something that I strongly recommend if you have the chance. Have a nice evening.