Our class recently went to the National Gallery in London, home to over 2,300 paintings mostly from Europe, spanning from the 13th to the 19th centuries. We’ve seen art from other eras and cultures at some of London’s other museums, but the National Gallery was a highlight for me. Last year I took a class called Art and the Sacred where we studied paintings and sculptures from these same eras, so I was especially excited to see the art in person.
One phenomenon I noticed at the Gallery—and at all the museums we’ve visited—was how many people were taking pictures of the art. I understand the impulse: we are moved by the painting’s scale, beauty, technique, or just overall sentiment that it communicates. I, too, often find myself pressed for time and sometimes think, Wow—I’ll just take a picture and look at it later. There isn’t a great way to preserve the inarticulable emotions that art draws out in us, but we take pictures in hopes of capturing some essence of it. Or, perhaps taking a photo is a way of saying I was there; I was this close to Picasso, as we mark the artwork becoming part of our own collection.
I wonder, though, whether photography is the best response to the inspiration that art evokes. How often do we return to those photos, and is there much more meaning to be gleaned from a phone’s representation of the work?
We go to museums to see the artwork in person, not for the opportunity to take a photo of it. After all, much better pictures exist online than what we can muster with our phones, and if that would be enough, then why even go?
As soon as we take a picture, we flatten the image to a two-dimensional representation, composed not of oils and pastels but glowing pixels, which can only be less impressive than the original. In-person viewing allows us to see the brushstrokes in three dimensions, comprehend the scale and proportions, find colors we didn’t know existed, visualize the texture, and see how the image looks from different angles and different lighting.
I don’t think taking pictures of art is a bad impulse, or even something to avoid. I’m particularly drawn to impressionist art and its palpable brushstrokes, and I felt the knowing tug in my gut—the one you get when art conjures in us something beyond words—and took pictures of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, Seurat’s Bathers at Asnières, and Pissarro’s Late Afternoon in our Meadow.
Impromptu photography at a museum is certainly a way of engaging with art, but I just think it’s a less interesting one. How much better would we appreciate the artwork if we found a bench and sat with it for ten minutes, or sketched it out in a notebook, or wrote down our observations, or read about its context?
Depth, not breadth, seems to be the better way to engage with art. The National Gallery was filled with paintings—alas, certainly too many to appreciate in a single viewing. Somehow, we must prioritize our time in the museum. But if we go to a museum to appreciate its collection, I’m not sure how a photo enriches our appreciation of the piece any more than a cursory glance given on the way to another exhibit: neither bad, but surely there are more imaginative and meaningful methods.
In the age of the internet, and the not-so-distant metaverse, going to museums remains a worthy endeavor. By sharing the physical space with a piece of art, we reduce our separation, if only slightly, from the art and from the artist. When we go to museums, we are lucky enough to contemplate the pieces as they were created, brushstrokes and all. Art is better in person, and I’m grateful to have been able to take advantage of that in London.
Caleb Shenk just completed his senior year of college, and is glad for the opportunity to take one last course abroad while at Goshen. He majored in accounting and had minors in Spanish and Bible/religion, and also served as executive editor of The Record in the fall of 2023.
