Slow looking

Some extracts from Michael Kimmelman’s article in last weekend’s NYT lamenting the demise of the slow observation of art, with some brief comments:

…What exactly are we looking for when we roam as tourists around museums?…

A few game tourists glanced vainly in guidebooks or hopefully at wall labels, as if learning that one or another of these sculptures came from Papua New Guinea or Hawaii or the Archipelago of Santa Cruz, or that a work was three centuries old or maybe four might help them see what was, plain as day, just before them.…

“…plain as day…”? Sorry, surely this is the problem, it’s never plain as day. Visitors need some context to understand the works, or maybe that’s what they should expect from a museum. That’s the “job” of the museum: to provide a place to see works in some kind of context. Kimmelman seems to be suggesting that the visitor should just take what’s “just before them” at face value, which I suppose they could, but it seems that is not providing enough to hold the tourists interest, hence creating the premiss for Kimmelman’s article.

Visiting museums has always been about self-improvement.…

<sighs> I think it would be more accurate to say museums have always been about someone’s idea of improving other people. The Louvre (the subject of this article) being a case in point. When it was opened up to the masses after the French revolution, the displays were adjusted from being the private collection of the king, to being specifically designed to demonstrate and inculcate an idea of France’s place in the world in “the people.”

Cameras replaced sketching by the last century; convenience trumped engagement, the viewfinder afforded emotional distance and many people no longer felt the same urgency to look.…

…the canon of art that provided guideposts to tell people where to go and what to look at was gradually dismantled. A core of shared values yielded to an equality among visual materials. This was good and necessary, up to a point. Millions of images came to compete for our attention. Liberated by a proliferation, Western culture was also set adrift in an ocean of passing stimulation, with no anchors to secure it.

This wistful nostalgia for an overarching ideology to guide our thinking, is a bit sickly. The “liberation” he speaks of will inevitably lead to new ideologies, perhaps ones better suited to the material and the proliferation, in the same way that it will lead to new ways of seeing and presenting art – new museums even. The tourists’ inattention in the Louvre is symptomatic of this change in viewing patterns and its sensible for the museum to try and identify how to address these new patterns.

Slow looking, like slow cooking, may yet become the new radical chic.

That, I think, is wishful thinking. Just because this is how it was in the past, and what museums have been created to cater for, does not mean it will be so in the future, or that museums will be suited to our viewing habits in the future. Our viewing habits adapt, and institutions will be created to serve those habits. Museums which work by “slow-viewing” will still have a place, and will go in and out of vogue as times and tastes change, the definition of “slow-viewing” will also change to meet these new requirements.

Kimmelman, Michael (2009), At Louvre, Many Stop to Snap but Few Stay to Focus, NYTimes.com, 3 August 2009.

Sci-Fi

Is it really that simple, you do something and then there is an immediate benefit to show for it?

When I was in my early 30’s I went through a phase of reading a lot of Sci-Fi (I had always enjoyed reading that genre, but this was a particularly intense period). I ended up with about 350 paperbacks. I had a thing about series of books too, something which transcends genres, I’m a sucker for getting a set of books and the consistency it gives the bookshelf – but that’s another story.

I know roughly how many I had, because at some point I stopped reading Sci-Fi and boxed them all up and sold them to friend. Now I’m being asked, what have I got to show for reading all those books? What benefit did it give me? How come I can’t tell a story?

I like to think that somehow they have benefited me, in my language, my knowledge, my ways of thinking. I tried to argue that Sci-Fi encourages thought outside of normal conventions, it’s the fantasy that pushes our understanding of reality, and allows us to look at reality in new ways. Sure, it’s escapism and you can go too far down that road (I was given the example of Japanese who become obsessed with Manga). But I think there are intangible benefits to reading something which doesn’t just reflect reality, but plays with it. Without question, I think there are intangible benefits to reading.

And intangible is a good word, used a lot here in China to describe cultural heritage which can’t be saved as objects. Like theatre performances, music, temporary things, ephemeral: something which can define art in itself. I think I make use of this knowledge, this experience of reading, every day, because it’s what makes me who I am. There’s no point asking me to define it, it’s right there in front of you.

<delete>

There are many reasons to write, some reasons just appear out of nothing/nowhere, maybe an unfilled form, or the keys on the keyboard, one after the other, stopping and reversing to correct a spelling error. Not random, but with no purpose other than to follow the trail that appears only after the act. I find it almost impossible to organise my thoughts into writing. I cannot be a good (academic) writer of anything beyond a few paragraphs. And then I have to remind myself that that’s all a book really is, a few paragraphs, followed by a few paragraphs, followed by a few paragraphs, and, eventually, you have a book. What could be easier. Yet, I’m laughing as I write that, lines that drip cliché, even as I write them I know this, yet it doesn’t stop me writing it. Because I know that at the end I can just <delete>