What Sits Behind the Glass

Men lined up in a symmetrical row, unmoving, stare at the cave wall as shadows dance across it, rushing in a flurry of movements and steps. These men have been in that place, in that time, their whole lives—forever watching the shadows and images that flicker on that cave wall. Chained like disobedient animals, they can't even turn their heads to escape a breeze. However, one chosen man is freed from his shackles, released from the images and the company of the other men he has observed. He turns and sees figures holding objects against a blinding, unrelenting fire. Its brightness terrifies him but also soothes his nerves. He then ventures forth past the living flame to the surface and sees something great: a bright light that is inescapable and unimaginable—something that the cave could never have taught him. Its beams are blinding, and its heat insurmountable. He sits there, staring and contemplating if all of this existed, then what was that life before? What was that thing that took place within the cave?

I have disliked art for a long time, and disliked it greatly during my formative years. One memory that always comes to mind is an art project I completed in high school. While I can't remember the exact details of the assignment, I distinctly remember that it required creating a unique piece using colored pencils. As someone who hated art, I didn't take the project seriously. However, as a high school student aspiring to attend college, I needed a good grade. So, I decided to approach it as quickly and easily as possible. I looked around and spotted a bowl in front of me, thinking, "Yeah, this will work." I used the bowl to trace a circle on the page and then used a protractor to trace its edges. This process continued with random items found around the room until the page was filled and became colorful. I stood over the finished piece with a smirk and a grin, feeling not proud but rather like prey outsmarting its predator. I submitted it and, after a few days, received an A. Vividly, I thought, "Wow, is that all it takes, really?" I hadn't put in any effort, not even an ounce, yet received a grade as if I had. Perhaps the teacher was being lenient because it was a high school art course, or maybe she saw beauty in the symmetry of the bowl, protractor, and squares converging to create a masterwork. However, I saw nothing but random shapes and colors on a page, hastily put together to look presentable.

Art is vexing. In many aspects, I find art to be special at some points and lacking creativity at others. This may not be a fair point to make, but I don't believe this has to be a fair discussion. Art is the first medium of expression by humans—from the caves of yesterday to the modern canvas of today. Art has been used to convey emotions, feelings, stories, opinions, truths, falsities, and much more. It is a medium that requires no dialogue or movement—purely visual and focused, vivid colors placed on the canvas, presenting a story that is worth more than words can describe. Art has been used at many points to depict whole societies and groups of people. It is a way to tell your story so that when it ends and the busts and great monuments are discovered, the new civilization that has superseded you sees what you wanted to stand for. That is the beauty of it—the power it holds in its shapes and forms, its figures and materials.

Greece and Rome are two great civilizations in their own respects, with cultures that still hold power and influence today, even after a millennium. These colossi stood tall for hundreds of years, and though they have been gone for some time now, their histories, stories, and art still remain today. Given that art is our focus, it is only right to look at the Greek and Roman statues of old and how they depicted themselves.

The Diskobolos or Discus Thrower, 2nd century CE. Roman copy of a 450-440 BCE Greek bronze by Myron

The Peloponnese has a rich history among its various city-states, with many clashes between them. When we look at the Greeks, their statues tell a story of how they wished to be viewed and how they wanted to portray themselves to those who looked at them. Many of the Greek sculptures, as I observe them, do not offer much variation and are extremely similar. As the viewer gazes upon them, they do not offer depictions of men or women. They do not give a glimpse into what someone from another time looked like or represented. They present a visage of perfection—not of the human form, but of what the human form should look like. The Greeks were not interested in individual appearances, nor did they care for accurate representations. They wanted their sculptures to show the world the ideals of what humans could and should be.

Their Roman counterparts, however, were interested in representing themselves not as gods, but as men. When looking at a 1st-century statue, such as the Head of a Roman Patrician, you can see the wrinkles in the face, the age, and the character of the man, all conveyed through the sculpture. This is not a depiction of a god put on display, but a man sculpted in his true image and form, representing what the rest of society should aspire to become in order to consider themselves true Roman citizens. This represents an honest and vigorous people who value virtue and wisdom above all else. It is not just a form, but the reality they desired and the goals they strove for daily. It is no secret that these virtues were not always upheld by the Romans, and sometimes the mark was missed by a wide margin. However, this is not a depiction of who they were, but of what they wanted to be. This holds true not only for the Romans and Greeks, but for all societies that have existed. For instance, pieces created during the 19th century, such as "Wanderer in the Storm," "Mother and Child by the Sea," "Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog," and more, present a much harsher and darker style. The landscape is vast as the individuals or people in the photos gaze out upon it or travel down roads filled with a sense of wonder yet uncertainty. They surrender themselves to the unknown and allow the world to engulf them in its vastness and eminence. These 19th-century pieces evoke mystery, nature, and emotions of what is to be feared in the immeasurable future or what would soon brew in the time to come. All of these eras, all of these pieces tell us something about their times, thoughts, emotions, hopes, and fears. They place us not in front of the piece staring into it, but within the piece, understanding the intentions and priorities of those not so long ago.

Art's representation of time also applies to people. Many portraits have been created, capturing the attention of people through time—portraits of real or fictional people with entire stories to tell, compressed into limited space and time. The canvas, as we've seen, can tell it all with just a few colors and strokes. Notable examples include the Mona Lisa, Girl with a Pearl Earring, and Fallen Angel, among others. However, what interests me most are the portraits of real individuals, men and women with profound stories to tell, yet confined by limited space and time. Among them, the portraits of former presidents stand out.

From the Portrait Gallery, three pieces stood out to me as I was surrounded by our former presidents: the portraits of Theodore Roosevelt, Barack Obama, and Donald Trump. Roosevelt's portrait could best be described as foreboding. He walks down steps as snakes and wolves lurk in the background, waiting for the opportunity to strike. Yet, as they lie in wait in the darkness, Roosevelt remains unshaken by their presence, holding his hat loosely. Roosevelt was a soldier, historian, civil service commissioner, governor, vice president, and secretary of the navy. He was truly a man of the people, embodying the pinnacle of what a man should represent during his presidency—a true Renaissance man. Throughout his presidency, he fought against the Standard Oil monopoly, resolved labor disputes, and championed the progressive movement. A man who stood atop the mountain, unprovoked by the monstrosities surrounding him. Barack Obama's portrait, on the other hand, is different. His presidency is viewed in diverse lights, but its significance, especially for African American people, remains undeniable. As he sits in a brown wooden chair, his hair slightly gray, his eyes staring into the distance, a stoic expression on his face, his arms crossed—I believe it says it all. It reflects what he underwent, not just as a man and a president, but as a symbol. The vibrant green flora surrounding him, mixed with flowers, symbolizes his importance to those who supported him. It embodies hope, belief, and all that surrounds him—above, below, and around him. It appears beautiful at a glance, but one can't help but sense the weight of his burden. Donald Trump, demonstrably the most divisive US president to date, appears against a background of black, contrasting with his white shirt and red tie. He stands there without a smile or a frown, not stoic or defeated, but rather with a sense of completeness and belonging. These portraits convey more than just the physical appearance of these figures; they present to us their actions, identities, and the challenges they faced. They embody monumental histories told through the manipulation of an artist's hand.

In the past, there was a kingdom that resided in what is now modern-day Nigeria, known as Benin. It stood tall as a center of trade and culture, its walls longer than the Great Wall of China. In Benin, metalworking was considered its greatest achievement. Their bronzes were created with astute skill and craftsmanship, representing the epitome of the Benin people. However, in the 1800s, the British Empire set its sights on the kingdom of Benin. Like many other kingdoms during that time, Benin was attacked, and its civilization was destroyed, leaving only words and memories. The heart of the kingdom, the Benin Bronzes, was seized by the empire that never set. The bronzes were sold to recoup the costs of destruction, and what remained is now displayed in museums for all to see and admire. The beauty, allure, artistry, and intricate details of these pieces now rest behind glass, in foreign lands, instead of palaces and grand halls. This story is not only about colonialism and the destruction of a kingdom; it's also about history, not just of the world, but of art and the narratives it carries. We may gaze upon beautiful portraits, sculptures, and bronze pieces, yet we often overlook the soul that resides behind the glass.

Benin Bronze' plaque showing the king (Oba) in regalia and with symbols of royal power (c.16th–17th century)

The history and story of art are what breathe life into it. They are what give it its essence, its significance. The Benin Bronzes may appear as intricate metal pieces from a forgotten African nation if one doesn't know the story of the Benin people, their craftsmanship, and their eventual fall to the challenges of colonialism. The Mona Lisa, for example, is a piece that many gaze upon, awed and intrigued by its enigmatic quality. However, I believe that not many people truly understand why they enjoy or appreciate the Mona Lisa; they simply know that they should. When one delves deeper into the piece and truly comprehends it, that's when genuine appreciation starts to flow. Consider that the artist, one of the most sought-after of his time, chose to depict a woman not adorned in gold and jewelry but wearing a simple, unpretentious dress without symbols of aristocracy. The composition's pyramid shape draws the focus to the woman's face, leaving out all else. Before this, portraits did not prioritize the sitter; they were made full-length. Leonardo created a more intimate, personal view that became a trendsetter. The woman is painted in a relaxed, forward-facing position, a smirk and confidence in her eyes. While these aspects may seem ordinary now, they were groundbreaking at the time—not just the portrait's technique, but also how women were portrayed in paintings. Despite all this, these elements often go unnoticed, obscured by a wave of popular thought shaped by the masses. When we look at the Mona Lisa, we may not see the true depth, purpose, and skill behind it. We might miss the techniques—like "sfumato," meaning "smoky," which enables the painting to work with our eyes, creating true depth of field and complexity, or "Chiaroscuro," which contrasts light and dark shades to create vivid three-dimensional forms. This knowledge, this insight, elevates the Mona Lisa beyond a mere famous painting found in the Louvre.

Banksy, Love is in the Bin, 2018

Realistically, though, who would know all of that? I mean, honestly, I only possess this knowledge because I researched it and spent time on Google. But how many people make such an effort before visiting the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa among the many other pieces housed there? In truth, very few know these truths, and even fewer likely care. Maybe that's what adds to art's allure or detracts from it. The ability to visit a museum, take in all those pieces for the first time, and form your own feelings and understanding from them—forging your own experiences without knowing the four-century significance of a technique employed in a painting. All you know is that what you are looking at is captivating, evoking emotions rarely felt. This brings to mind "Girl With Balloon," a seemingly simple artwork that may not strike me as extraordinary, but the artist behind it is Banksy, an enigmatic figure. It seems that in this case, the name and brand are of paramount importance. In 2018, the piece was sold for $1.4 million. However, an alarm sounded during the sale, and the piece began to shred within the frame, jamming halfway through. The piece had been "Banksy-ed." At first glance, one might deem this artwork worthless—why would anyone want a shredded piece of art? Yet, due to my ignorance and lack of insight, I failed to realize that the piece had gained value. In 2021, the piece, now renamed "Love Is in the Bin," sold for $25.4 million to the highest bidder. So, what's the history, the story behind this artwork? What's its allure? To me, it seemed like nothing, absolutely nothing. However, for others, especially the person who purchased it, there must be something more. Perhaps the piece spoke to them, evoking melancholy and strife from their childhood, or perhaps they possessed significant wealth and decided it would be cool to own a Banksy piece. This highlights the unique nature of art—the power to captivate one individual, drawing them in like the abyss and its demons, while another person may merely look at the piece's title, the artist's name, and declare it worthy of their praise.

Plato's allegory of the cave offers an interesting perspective. As men are shown shadows of images they don't understand the origins of, they create their own interpretations. However, when one is freed, he realizes that these images are merely objects manipulated by other individuals to create those stories on the walls—stories he thought he knew everything about. As he ventures out of the cave, he encounters a world he has never seen before—a place that initially held no meaning for him. Over time, however, it becomes everything to him—a new world he embraces. The cave then becomes a distant, unfamiliar place that was once so significant but now exists as a vague memory. Through this allegory from "The Republic," Plato illustrates how we live in a world constantly bombarded with new thoughts, ideas, truths, and falsehoods. We struggle to reconcile our interpretations of reality with the actual world.

This essay has undergone significant changes since I began writing it. Initially, I intended to express my disdain for art and its tendency to present a false sense of truth and superiority. I saw myself writing each word, holding the Kurt Vonnegut quote as my guiding torch, lighting ablaze the pyre. While some of these sentiments still linger, my perspective has shifted through self-reflection and internal debate. Jackson Pollock often came to mind—his art seemingly simple and easy, something I, a person with limited artistic skills, could replicate. Yet, upon visiting the Portrait Gallery, I encountered a different side of Pollock's work—not the chaotic splatters of paint, but a piece with structure and focus. It retained an element of chaos and expression, yet this time, it felt like real art, not merely random strokes. I am by no means an infallible person preaching dogma, but what I once saw as art—what I once judged—has evolved within me. It may sound cliché, but my perspective has awakened, despite my previous ignorance.

As I've examined various art pieces—portraits, statues, stolen bronzes, and paint splatters—I've realized that everything has come together for me, and it might trace back to Plato. The truth is that the artist, the painting, the statue—all carry a history, a story. Some of us are aware of the destruction of Benin and its magnificent civilization, while others merely observe the bronze pieces through glass. However, each element molds our interpretation and understanding of art in unique ways. This mirrors our upbringing, from varying socioeconomic backgrounds to diverse histories. We are shaped by everything we encounter and everyone we meet, becoming a part of us. These experiences become a part of us, and some people may know them, while others see us at face value—much like viewing us through a pane of glass. I used to call most art abhorrent or passable, but now I see what art truly is, even though, from time to time, I still deem certain pieces as bad. These judgments consider the history, voice, and presence of the artist. The canvas demonstrates that we are all exposed to different things, taught different beliefs, and face different challenges. Our histories shape us, our stories define us, and our appearances are the results. Just like the man in the cave who emerges into the sunlight and is then dragged back down, criticized by his fellow chained men, he realizes that their beliefs differ vastly from his knowledge, and their truth is no less valid. So, as I gaze at Jackson Pollock's paintings, strewn across a canvas in a chaotic manner, devoid of serenity, a sense of serendipity coursing through his hand as he creates without real heart or passion, I will look beyond the line that warns against approaching further. I will notice the person behind the piece, living a life different from mine, evolving in different ways and times, making different choices and facing different appraisals. This realization may prompt me to nod my head in understanding, turning to the piece adjacent, all placed behind glass on the wall.