“THE MONA LISA WAS DISAPPOINTING:” THE MYSTERIOUS WAYS THAT ART BECOMES A MASTERPIECE

Museum Mysteries | Jaime Meier

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The "Mona Lisa" by Leonardo da Vinci (Source)

The “Mona Lisa” by Leonardo da Vinci is known by art lovers and avoiders alike. The painting resides in the Louvre Museum in Paris, which is one of the most visited museums in the world as evidenced by its 9.6 million visitors in 2019. Contrary to what you may believe, the Mona Lisa does not loom in popular culture because of her beauty and cheeky smile. Rather, her notoriety is concertedly preserved by the people and institution which house her.

When the “Mona Lisa” was acquired by the Louvre in 1804 and subsequently hung, the painting “wasn’t even the most famous painting in its gallery, let alone in the Louvre.” But on August 21, 1911 the painting was stolen and swiftly hurled into the international art scene by sensational media coverage. The painting was regained 28 months later when one of the thieves attempted to sell it to an art dealer in Florence. The “Mona Lisa” was hence returned to the Louvre a new woman.

The international media sparked an interest that has led millions of people in the century since to traverse the Louvre and whirl past statues and paintings to reach the “Mona Lisa,” only to be disappointed by its size, quality, or the swarm of people surrounding it. This is because the “Mona Lisa” has been deemed a masterpiece, and thus people must be able to recognize its splendor on sight, right? The problem is that the idea of subjectivity in art and pronouncing certain artworks as masterpieces are two ideas that cannot coexist. To truly allow all people to enjoy art, the hierarchy and status of certain mediums and painters must be dismantled. The expectation that one can recognize and feel a great work of art on sight is upheld by an upper class who have access to knowledge about art history but establish their elite and special status as art connoisseurs by spreading the idea that a great work of art is simply “known.”

A crowd in front of the "Mona Lisa." (Source)

Advertisement on the Louvre website. (Source)

The act of seeing the “Mona Lisa” is also hardly about the artwork; it plays into a social game, as established by Pierre Bourdieu, that relies on continuous interest and participation by visitors to ensure its continued status as a must-see masterpiece. Many people grow up hearing and learning about the “Mona Lisa,” creating an investment in it that may urge them to travel and see the painting for themselves. By visiting the painting and spreading positive or negative reviews, this very act ensures the continuation of the game by either encouraging others to experience its enchanting brushstrokes and chaotic crowd or become an art topic to complain about.

The Mona Lisa is not inherently a masterpiece – no artwork is. That is simply the value invested in by an elitist culture that seeks to prevent others from fully enjoying art. If art is indeed subjective, then one should enjoy it on their terms, not the ones decided for them. Whether you are interested in art or not, I, a resident art lover, encourage you to re-examine why certain works of art and their makers are given a certain status over others. Come to your own conclusions about the art you enjoy and the art you would prefer to avoid.

PERSONAL CONNECTIONS AND PERSONAL COLLECTIONS

COLLECTIONS CORNER

BY: KATIE PAOLOZZA

Have you ever found yourself visiting a museum multiple times, only to realize that you're re-tracing your steps? Being inspired by certain galleries and objects is part of what makes a museum visit memorable and special. I understand the tendency to revisit those objects; we're chasing a feeling, an inquiry, or maybe by understanding more about the objects we can understand more about ourselves and why we're drawn to them.

Personally, the most frustrating thing about being moved by an object is my inability to engage with it on a multi-sensory level. I love material culture, and when I see artifacts, I want to pick them up. I'm curious about their texture, whether they would look the same from close-up, how they smell, and if they are heavy or light. When I cannot do those things (and there are good reasons we can't), I do what a lot of people do: I take a picture.

Here's a horrible picture I took of a Maiolica dish at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford:

Here's one I tried to take in one of the European Galleries at the ROM:

This is the clearest picture I could get of the Rosetta Stone at the British Museum:

And it was so difficult to get a clear shot of the Mona Lisa at the Louvre that I gave up and took this picture of everyone else trying to take a picture:

Notice a pattern? Don't get me wrong, I have a lot of great pictures of museums from my travels, but even in the good ones there is always something about the objects that I cannot capture. I take a picture because I think it will help me remember how it felt to see that object in person, and because having my own record of the object makes me feel a bit like it's part of my own collection. That's why I've kept my flawed, blurry images. They are a photo journal of what has intellectually and emotionally captivated me over the years. 

Digital collections and social media platforms like Pinterest make it even easier for us to collect and save what inspires us. And while I firmly believe that digitizing collections is both necessary and convenient, I will always choose physical material over anything digital. The two work well together anyway, so luckily I don't have to choose. 

I am also always aware of how lucky I am to simply have the option to visit museums so frequently. In tense times, with the number of safe spaces steadily shrinking, it's comforting and humanizing to step outside of ourselves and be immersed in things that are all at once familiar and new. The objects came before us, and most of them will outlive us and remain constant long after we are gone. 

That's kind of nice, don't you think?