CECI N'EST PAS UNE EXPLICATION

Margherita Bietti
Apr 27
5 min read

L'ARTE DI NON CAPIRE L'ARTE

Without a regulatory idea of art, how can one distinguish a work that deserves to be appreciated from those celebrated out of habit or passive conformity to a certain propaganda?

Often, when observing a painting or a sculpture in a museum, one might feel that everyone else understands its meaning more deeply. It may seem that art belongs almost exclusively to an elite capable of grasping its true essence, as if a careful study of the artist’s life or the movement of their brushstrokes were the definitive key to fully enjoying it. Over time, however, I have become convinced that this is not the case: art belongs to everyone, especially to those who experience it as a pleasant discovery.

Heidegger, in The Origin of the Work of Art, argues that the work is not simply the product of the artist’s genius; rather, it is the artist who depends on the truth that the work itself reveals. The most authentic meaning of art is not a mere empirical verification, but an act of alétheia—the manifestation of being, the unveiling of truth. What makes a work of art extraordinary is its ability to materialize this revelation, unveiling the mystery of things and our connection to them in our being-in-the-world. However, this truth is never definitive: being itself remains wrapped in an enigma, reflecting the human condition as a state of thrownness into an existence without a clear origin.

The contemplation of a work of art is, therefore, a window onto our existence, a dimension that does not merely suggest turmoil—it demands it. The feeling of bewilderment before an artwork is not only natural but necessary, since questioning the being of the work means questioning ourselves and the world around us. Art is a visual philosophy: the artist is the narrator, and our gaze is the story that unfolds before us.

Along these same lines, the British art historian Michael Baxandall, in his Painting and Experience in Fifteenth Century Italy, focuses on defining what he calls the “period eye,” that is, the set of skills and visual habits that a 15th-century audience brought with them when observing complex works of art. A painting is sensitive to the interpretative abilities of the viewer, meaning that the same artwork can be perceived in different ways depending on who is looking at it. Much of what we call taste lies in the interaction between the interpretative demands imposed by a work and the visual comprehension skills possessed by the observer.

An individual’s visual experience is, in part, culturally determined, shaped by the society in which they live. Among the factors influencing this experience are the criteria used to classify visual stimuli, the knowledge that enriches the immediate perception of an image, and the attitude adopted toward the artistic object.

Most 15th-century Italian paintings had a religious function, not only in terms of subject matter but also in their intended purpose. These images were not mere representations but tools to deepen the viewer’s spiritual awareness, visual invitations to reflect on the truths of Christianity. However, the relationship between religious ideas and pictorial images was not purely illustrative: the painter—particularly the religious one—did not simply provide a formula of faith but sought to stimulate an active engagement from the viewer. According to Baxandall, the relationship between painting and the broader culture was complementary: art was not meant to merely confirm what the viewer already knew but to offer a stimulus rich enough to expand their understanding.

Artistic experience is never absolute, nor is it merely a perceptual phenomenon linked to taste; rather, it takes shape as a transformative event. A great work of art never leaves us indifferent because it removes us from our daily dimension, upends our certainties, and redefines our way of seeing the world.

Attempting to fully grasp the origin of a work through rigid and definitive means would be futile, for its ability to renew itself lies precisely in the fact that its origin remains elusive. By exhibiting itself, a work of art exhibits a world, revealing the authentic meaning of things. But if, on one hand, it exposes a world, on the other, it deprives itself of one: its presence transcends the context and place of its creation, in an irreversible phenomenon of preservation and loss that constitutes the very allure of art.

Art is, therefore, first and foremost a human endeavor, not only because it is shaped by the artist but also because it escapes any predetermined framework, creating a direct dialogue with the observer. The experience of a work of art cannot be objectified, as its meaning is never definitive: even the sum of all the interpretations it can assume over time will never fully contain its ultimate essence—otherwise, it would cease to speak to us.

An emblematic example of this openness to interpretation is offered by the work of Lygia Pape, whose practice challenges the rigidity of traditional artistic codes and invites the viewer to become an active participant in the creative process.

1959, Brazil. The exploration of the Livro da Criação – The Book of Creation – at the Museu de Arte Moderna in Rio de Janeiro marked a break with conventional abstract tradition. Inspired by the Neo-Concrete movement in Latin America, which sought to infuse abstract art with emotion and sensitivity, Pape introduced a two-dimensional representation of the abstract vocabulary. Rejecting the conventional idea of a book, her Livro da Criação instead contained a variety of squares painted in primary colors which, when manipulated by the viewer, unfolded into twodimensional paper forms.

In this poetic representation, each element becomes an experiment in form, capable of evoking a story or a memory. In that era of great optimism in Brazil, the act of shaping one’s own story and sculptural forms—deciding, moment by moment, which to keep hidden and which to bring into the open—could ignite a broader dialogue on freedom and possibility.

Lygia Pape’s work is just one example of a compositional possibility that not only creates space but makes the viewer the protagonist—through the creation of participatory works that questioned the space between artist and spectator, as well as the social context of art itself.

I like to think that art does not need to be understood at all costs. There are meanings that transcend not only mere representation but also our instinct to define and confine them. It is precisely this inexhaustibility that makes art so rich—not because it is incomplete, but because it allows for a continuous renewal of our gaze.