Why You Want to Photograph Art

In the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, I stood in front of Van Gogh, who was blue and post-impressionistic. The green of his eyes, like the green that rimmed his hat, brought out the red hues of his cheeks, lips, and ears. The thick brushstrokes gave so much movement to the portrait that, for a moment, he felt alive — you could almost see the paintbrush and Van Gogh’s accompanying hand gestures. I cried. A woman asked me to move out of the way, which was fair enough given I was standing right in front of the painting and had been doing so for ten minutes. I stood off to the side where a girl was editing her Instagram story of the Van Gogh, undecided about what filter to use. The woman took a photo and left, having seen the painting almost entirely through her phone. Safe to say, the tears had subsided. Well … what the hell had just happened, and why?

“Esse est percipi,” wrote Bishop George Berkeley in his 1710 work A Treatise Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge, which translates roughly to: “to be is to be perceived.” Berkeley resolved this with an omniscient God who perceives us into being, but where does this leave us in the secular age? What Berkeley could not have foreseen was Instagram — a platform where followers, not God, perceive a curated selection of our lives. Not as omniscient as the real deal, but maybe that’s for the best.   

In history, we’ve largely never wanted to see art, but wanted to be seen seeing it, or so was the case for the upper echelons of society. “Conspicuous consumption,” coined by sociologist Thorstein Veblen, describes consumption as a display of wealth and status. Though this could apply to some guy’s Lamborghini going 80mph down North Street, it also applies to Tudor aristocrats who chose the worst seats in the Globe Theatre, facing the audience rather than the stage to be seen, or to those invited to the Paris Salon, where presence and taste became tools of distinction amongst the elite. Whilst Instagram posts of artworks similarly proclaim, “Look! I was here — I’m very into art, as you can see,” most of these photos now gather digital dust on your camera roll. Here, art is less about perception than possession. A photo becomes a souvenir, more personal than a fridge magnet from the gift shop, but not quite personal enough to survive a camera roll purge when storage runs low. Partly to blame are institutions that encourage a speed-dating approach to art. I know I would rather take a zoomed-in photo than be part of the Mona Lisa mosh pit. Brian Eno, for his 2018 exhibition 77 Million Paintings, sought to counter this by designing a gallery with enough sofas to prioritise slower artistic engagement, challenging the speed and schedules of its audience. It’s crazy what a few more chairs can do. The last time I visited the National in Edinburgh, I noticed a girl seated on one of the gallery’s folding portable stools, sketching a sculpture before her. It was art inspiring art, and it suggests that being moved by art should have a bit more to show for itself than just photographic evidence that you were there.

But what if you’re not much of an artist, or don’t plan on crying over a painting? You could just take a picture of the plaque; you’ll likely forget which painting it belongs to, forcing you to look it up and maybe learn more about the history of the artwork, its movement, and the artist. If you insist on photographing art, try including the people looking at it. Think about composition and framing. Bonus points if they mimic the artwork in pose or colour. Perhaps go the opposite way and give in to the urge of being perceived. Buy prints and put them on your living room wall against your landlord’s wishes in a feeble attempt to resurrect Paris Salon culture, albeit with a bit more Blu Tack and a bit less elitism. Or do what I do, and write about art in your student newspaper. We will never outgrow our need to be seen, so all we can do is spend more time with art, and in turn, give it the respect it deserves.

Illustration by Dasha Andreeva