An art lover enters a museum. It is not his first visit, yet each time still feels exceptional. In Europe, public museums are still rare, and his profession as a physician leaves him little time to devote to his most cherished pastime. He sits on a bench before the painting he has chosen to study and remains there for a long while, silent, observing. Over the years, he has developed a personal discipline of attention, a technique of memory that allows him to preserve in his mind what he will soon have to leave behind. There is something cruel about the passion for art: once you step away from a work, you can rely only on your memories or on imperfect reproductions engraved and printed in black and white by some copyist.
 
After a while, he takes out his notebook and begins to draw; not the whole scene, but the details of the bodies depicted in the painting: the conch and lobe of the ears, the outline of the nails, the shape of the feet. At first, he had taken up this exercise out of professional habit, guided by the anatomical curiosity of a man accustomed to observing the diversity of human bodies. Over time, however, by copying and recopying these particular features, he has arrived at a singular conviction: to recognise the hand of a painter, one should not look so much at the overall style or the palette—which can be imitated—but at those details executed almost absentmindedly, with a quick gesture, less constrained by convention and closer to the artist’s individuality. It is a method of recognition akin to that used in clinical medicine, which must often rely on the fragmentation of symptoms in order to infer the underlying disease.
 
We are in the nineteenth century. The man seated before the painting is named Giovanni Morelli and he does not yet know that, a few decades later, the method he is slowly developing will influence not only the history of art but other fields of knowledge as well. Sigmund Freud himself would later recognise something strangely familiar in the approach of this great connoisseur and would write: “Psychoanalysis proceeds in the same way: it attaches particular importance to what appears insignificant, to the refuse and debris of observation, in order to discover secret or concealed things.” Indeed, in psychoanalytic practice, truth does not reveal itself in the most coherent and carefully organised speeches, but in the deviations: a slip of the tongue, an apparently secondary detail, a contradiction in the narrative. The analyst attends to what seems marginal, because it is precisely in these fissures that something may emerge that escapes conscious control.
 
A few centuries earlier, in Venice, a tale of Persian origin is printed: The Three Princes of Serendip. The story recounts the journey of three young princes who encounter a man distraught over the loss of his camel. Before he even has time to explain, the three princes begin asking him a series of astonishingly precise questions. Was the camel, they ask, perhaps blind in one eye? Was it, by chance, lame? Did it carry butter on one side and honey on the other? And had it not been ridden by a pregnant woman?
 
Troubled by such precision, the man concludes that the three must have stolen the animal and openly accuses them. Cornered, the princes explain that not only have they not stolen it, but they have never even seen it. Along the road, they say, they simply noticed certain details: the grass had been grazed only on the poorer side of the path, suggesting that the animal could see out of only one eye. One of the tracks, dragged through the sand, indicated an injured leg. Farther along, the insects gathering revealed that butter had leaked from one side of the load, attracting ants, while honey dripping from the other side had drawn flies. Finally, near the spot where someone had stopped to urinate, handprints could be seen in the soil: a sign that the person who stood up had needed to push themselves up with both hands—something that might happen to a pregnant woman.

Drawing: © Anaëlle Clot

Finally, one last and very long leap back in time. A person walks slowly across a muddy plain under a light rain. They are not looking into the distance, as someone trying to orient themselves in the landscape might do; their gaze remains fixed on the ground. At first glance, the terrain appears uniform. But it takes only a moment of bending down and paying close attention to realise that it is anything but: the brown surface is dotted with fresh, deep footprints leading toward a grove of birch trees. Here and there, blades of grass lie flattened, tufts of hair cling to the low branches of bushes. A little farther on, a few still-warm droppings slowly dissolve into the mud. An animal passed through here not long ago. It walked with a heavy step, perhaps tired from the hunt and the meal that followed. Perhaps it is now hiding in the grove, where among the trees there is a pond to drink from and thickets in which to take shelter. Night will soon fall. It would be wiser to keep one’s distance.

What unites these episodes scattered across time—episodes to which the historian Carlo Ginzburg alludes in his essay Clues: Roots of an Evidential Paradigm—is the same mental operation. In each case, someone finds themselves confronted with a reality that cannot be observed directly and must be reconstructed from clues: a minor detail in a painting, something that catches the eye along the edge of a road, a slip of the tongue in a conversation, footprints in the mud. The event itself is no longer present, yet it has left behind a series of scattered signs. The work of knowledge consists precisely in connecting them, patiently, until plausible patterns begin to emerge, much like a detective in a crime novel.

Drawing on examples such as these, Ginzburg proposed recognising the existence of a particular form of knowledge that cuts across very different disciplines, which he called the “evidential paradigm”. It is a way of knowing that proceeds less through general laws or abstract demonstrations than through the interpretation of clues—tiny, marginal signs that, if observed with sufficient attention, allow one to trace back to a broader reality. In this kind of knowledge, what appears individual or singular is not a residue to be eliminated in order to reach a more stable generalisation. On the contrary, it is the very point from which knowledge—situated knowledge—takes its momentum. This amounts to a genuine epistemological revolution: to consider the unrepeatable as the very condition that makes interpretation possible overturns a long tradition of scientific thought that sought, instead, to ground knowledge in the elimination of the particular.

In the 1970s, it was precisely around this intuition that what came to be called microhistory began to develop in Europe. Figures such as Ginzburg, Giovanni Levi and Carlo Poni proposed complementing the great structural syntheses of historical scholarship with close attention to marginal subjects: the community of a village, a judicial trial, the trajectory of a particular individual. The term micro does not so much refer to the size of the object of study as to a change in the scale of observation: looking closely makes it possible to perceive tensions, practices and forms of experience that remain invisible when the historical landscape is observed from too great a distance. As Giovanni Levi writes, it is a “search for truth related to the conflictual and active way in which people act in the world”, a search that proceeds through knowledge of the individual without renouncing precision or scientific ambition. This way of looking closely, of paying attention to details and situated experiences, resonates strongly with the way we work within least. When we carry out investigations in a territory in order to imagine co-creative artistic projects, we often adopt a similar approach: we focus on the micro scale—practices, narratives, uses—and place great value on lived experience, which complements and sometimes shifts theoretical frameworks.

The evidential paradigm also highlights a broader tension in the history of science. Since the early modern period, many disciplines have sought to ground their legitimacy in the use of quantitative instruments, in the ability to measure, to count and to establish statistical regularities. Yet there are domains of knowledge, such as the human sciences, where understanding cannot dispense with a confrontation with the singular case, with what cannot be reduced to a numerical series. The symptom of a patient, the handwriting of a manuscript, an archival testimony, these are not simply data among others. They are individual signs that demand interpretation, that escape any attempt at measurement and that carry a profound significance.

The evidential paradigm may appear to be a merely refined epistemological problem, but it is in fact a method that highlights the importance of experience and that, quite coherently, has its roots in a practice: hunting—the reading of traces left on the ground, the deduction of an invisible presence from signs scattered across the landscape. Some scholars have indeed suggested that a first form of narrative thinking may have emerged within hunting societies: the cognitive capacity, which we share with other animals, to connect dispersed signs into a coherent sequence of events. Footprints embody the paradox of a presence that is no longer there yet can be reconstructed from the traces it has left behind. Perhaps it is from this experience that a more general capacity arose: the ability to think in symbols and signs. Through many transformations, this capacity leads to art, to speech, to writing and to history itself: this very page where I, who wrote a few days ago, and you, who are reading at this moment, coexist—and from which someone, many years from now, may perhaps infer something about the beginning of the twenty-first century.