Art ought to be simple. Either you have a visceral, emotional response to it or you don’t. You might be repulsed, intrigued, humbled, bored or moved to fits of ecstasy. This is healthy and the way art itself survives as a meaningful and desired part of human existence. It is the correspondence, through the object, between the viewer and the creator where all other elements in between are dissolved, at least for a moment.

Then at some point we realise that we are being told what to like; the voices begin to filter in. Often they enlighten, though just as often they repulse. Once they begin to insinuate accusations of ignorance, mouth self-congratulatory hyperbole and generally alienate, they have become obstructive.

Yet, the persistent among us try to observe. We read the books and listen to the talking and follow the audio guides. We stand and study and, more often than not, come to one of two conclusions: “I don’t get it, probably because of my embarrassing lack of knowledge and all those words they’re using to explain why this is important,” or “I’m pretty sure I get it, even though I’m not really feeling any actual emotional response - I’d better remember those parts of that person’s explanation so I can use it later to make up for my embarrassing lack of knowledge.”

If the Mona Lisa hadn’t been talked about so much over the last five hundred years most people today wouldn’t much care or even know about it. The myth of the object becomes more important than the private, unfettered emotional exchange between the viewer and the object. The line of communion shifts away from the creator of the object towards those who talk about the object.

And so the galleries empty, becoming mausoleums to the talkers.