Olivia: The average art museum visitor spends less than 30 seconds looking at any single work of art. Thirty seconds. Jackson: That sounds about right. I’m usually halfway to the gift shop by second 22. I always feel this pressure, like I’m supposed to be having some profound, life-altering experience, but mostly I just feel… bored. And a little stupid. Olivia: What if I told you that feeling of restless boredom isn't your fault? What if it's part of a deliberate, centuries-old strategy to keep you from seeing what's really there? Jackson: Okay, now you have my attention. You’re telling me my short attention span is actually a political conspiracy? I feel so validated. Olivia: It’s the explosive idea at the heart of John Berger's Ways of Seeing. This book, and the BBC series it came from back in 1972, was a direct counter-attack on the stuffy, 'great genius' view of art history that was dominant at the time. Berger, a Marxist art critic and novelist, wanted to pull back the curtain and show how art really functions in society. Jackson: A Marxist art critic. That already sounds like a recipe for shaking things up. So he’s not interested in just talking about brushstrokes and color palettes. Olivia: Exactly. He’s interested in power. And his first target is that exact feeling you described—the sense of being an outsider in a place that’s supposed to be for everyone. He calls it mystification.

Jackson: Mystification. That sounds like something a magician does. What does he mean by it in the context of art? Olivia: It’s the process of making something seem holy, spiritual, and totally separate from everyday life in order to obscure its real-world meaning. Berger argues that a privileged minority of art experts and historians do this to justify their own authority and, by extension, the power of the ruling classes who have always owned the art. Jackson: Huh. It’s like when a company uses a ton of legal jargon in its terms of service to confuse you into agreeing to something you wouldn't otherwise. Olivia: That’s a perfect analogy. They explain away what should be obvious. Berger gives this incredible, heartbreaking example. It’s about the 17th-century Dutch painter, Frans Hals. Have you heard of him? Jackson: The name sounds vaguely familiar. Lots of portraits of serious-looking people in black hats, right? Olivia: That’s the one. Well, in 1664, when Hals was in his eighties, he was a pauper. Destitute. He was living on public charity, and the city of Haarlem had to give him three loads of peat just so he wouldn't freeze to death. Jackson: Wow, that’s rough. Olivia: In that same year, he was commissioned to paint the portraits of the Governors and Governesses of the Alms House—the very people in charge of the charity that was keeping him alive. Jackson: Wait a minute. So he’s basically forced to paint flattering portraits of the people who hold his life in their hands? The tension there must have been unbelievable. Olivia: Exactly! And Berger argues you can SEE it in the paintings. The figures are somber, severe, and you can feel this raw, unflinching honesty in how Hals looks at them. But then Berger quotes a modern art historian analyzing these same paintings. And what does the expert talk about? Jackson: Let me guess. Not the poverty, not the power dynamics. Olivia: Not a word. The expert praises Hals’s “harmonious fusion” and the “unforgettable contrast” of the composition. He dismisses any idea that Hals might have been critical of his subjects, saying there’s no evidence for it. Jackson: That’s insane! The evidence is the entire situation! The painter is a pauper, the subjects are his wealthy patrons. That’s not just context; it’s the whole story. The art historian just erased it. Olivia: That is mystification in a nutshell. By focusing only on formal qualities—composition, technique, genius—the expert strips the painting of its social reality. He turns a powerful human drama into a sterile, academic object. It becomes a "holy relic" in a museum, and we, the viewers, are told to admire its "artistic merit" without ever asking what it’s actually about. Jackson: And that’s why we feel stupid in museums! Because we’re looking for a human story, but we’re being told to look for "compositional unity." It’s like being told to admire the font choice in a letter that says your house is being repossessed. Olivia: Precisely. And the data backs this up. Berger cites a study that found the overwhelming majority of museum-goers come from highly educated, privileged backgrounds. For many working-class people surveyed, a museum felt most like a church—a quiet, intimidating place full of relics that have nothing to do with their lives. Jackson: So art becomes a tool to reinforce class divides. If you have the right education, you know the secret language. If you don’t, you’re left on the outside, feeling like you’re not smart enough to "get it." Olivia: And that, Berger says, is the point. It cuts us off from our own history. It makes the past seem like it was always the property of the rich and powerful, which retrospectively justifies their role today.

Jackson: Okay, so mystification obscures class and power. That’s a huge idea. Where else does Berger see this happening? Olivia: He argues it's even more pervasive, and maybe more damaging, when it comes to gender. This is where he introduces one of his most famous and controversial ideas. He has this killer line that sums it up: "Men act and women appear." Jackson: "Men act and women appear." What does that mean, exactly? Olivia: He argues that in European culture, a man's presence is defined by what he can do to you or for you. It’s about his potential power. A woman's presence, on the other hand, has been traditionally about her appearance, her attitude towards herself, and what is allowed to be done to her. From a young age, she’s taught to see herself as an object of vision. She becomes her own surveyor. Jackson: She’s watching herself being looked at. Olivia: Yes. And this dynamic is crystalized in the tradition of the European nude in oil painting. This is where Berger makes another brilliant distinction: the difference between being naked and being nude. Jackson: I have to admit, I thought those were the same thing. Olivia: Not for Berger. To be naked is to be yourself, without disguise. It’s a state of being. To be nude is to be seen naked by others, and to be turned into an object of sight. Nudity, he says, is a form of dress. It’s a performance for a spectator. Jackson: Wow. Okay, that’s a powerful idea. Nudity is a form of dress. Can you give me an example? Olivia: Think of a typical reclining nude from art history, like Lely’s portrait of Nell Gwynne, who was King Charles II’s mistress. She’s depicted naked, but she’s completely passive. Her body is arranged for one person's pleasure: the spectator-owner, in this case, the King. Her nakedness isn't about her feelings; it's a sign of her submission to his ownership. She is an object, a possession, beautifully rendered. That is being nude. Jackson: Right, her body is basically part of the King's collection of fine things. Olivia: Exactly. Now, contrast that with a painting Rubens made of his own young wife, Helene Fourment. She’s also naked, holding a fur coat around herself. But she’s active. She’s turning, caught in a moment. Her expression is personal, maybe a little shy, maybe amused. You don't feel like a voyeuristic owner; you feel like an intruder on an intimate, private moment between two people who love each other. Rubens’s vision of her is so personal it doesn't make any allowance for an outside spectator. For Berger, she is naked, not nude. Jackson: I can see the difference so clearly now. One is a performance for an audience, the other is a private reality. But isn’t it a bit of a generalization to say the entire tradition of the nude is just for the male gaze? Weren't some just celebrating the human form? Olivia: That’s the pushback, and it’s a fair question. Berger’s critics, especially later feminist thinkers, have argued his view can be a bit reductive. But Berger’s point is about the convention itself. The visual language of the traditional nude, with its poses and passive expressions, was built on the assumption of a male spectator who was also the presumed owner of the painting. The exceptions, like the Rubens painting, are powerful precisely because they break that convention so dramatically. Jackson: And I guess that convention, that way of seeing women as objects to be looked at, didn't just stay in the art gallery. Olivia: Not even close. It bled out into the entire culture. And that’s where Berger makes his final, devastating connection.

Jackson: Okay, this is fascinating for old paintings, but how does it matter today, in a world of iPhones and social media? Olivia: It matters more than ever. Berger saves his final punch for this: he argues that modern advertising—or as he calls it, publicity—is the direct heir to the oil painting tradition. Jackson: Hold on. A glossy perfume ad and a 400-year-old painting? That feels like a stretch. What’s the connection? Olivia: The visual language. Publicity constantly borrows the authority and prestige of art. You’ll see ads that mimic the composition of a famous painting, use classical statues, or evoke a sense of historical luxury. They do this to give their products a sense of timeless value and cultural weight. But there’s a crucial difference in their function. Jackson: What’s the difference? Olivia: An oil painting celebrated what the wealthy owner already had. It affirmed his status, his possessions, his place in the world. Publicity, on the other hand, works by making you dissatisfied with your present life. It preys on your anxiety. Jackson: It has to make you feel like you’re lacking something. Olivia: Precisely. It manufactures glamour. And glamour, Berger says, is a modern invention. It’s not about being beautiful or rich in yourself. It’s about being envied by others. Publicity shows you images of people whose lives have been transformed by a product. You are meant to envy them, and that envy is supposed to motivate you to buy the product, in the hope that you too will become enviable. Jackson: Wow. So every ad that makes me feel slightly inadequate about my life, my car, my vacation… it’s using this trick. It’s selling me the feeling of being envied by others. Olivia: Yes. And it offers consumption as a substitute for happiness. The choice of what to buy is presented as the main free choice we have. Berger calls it a substitute for democracy. Instead of changing our lives or our society, we are encouraged to change our brand of shampoo. The real world, with its problems and injustices, disappears. All that’s left is you, the product, and the promise of a future, transformed self. Jackson: That’s a bleak thought. It’s an eventless world. Nothing ever really happens except the act of buying. Olivia: And it’s a world built on a fantasy that can never be fulfilled. Because the moment you buy the product, it fails to live up to the glamorous image. The publicity has already moved on, creating a new anxiety for you to solve with the next purchase. It's a cycle of dissatisfaction.

Jackson: So, if we put it all together… Berger is saying that from the hallowed halls of the museum to the ad that just popped up on my phone, we are surrounded by a language of images designed to control how we see the world, how we see ourselves, and what we desire. Olivia: That’s the core of it. His ultimate point is that seeing is not a passive, biological act. It’s a political one. The book was written over 50 years ago, but in our hyper-visual, image-saturated culture, that insight is more urgent than ever. He’s not just giving us an art history lesson; he's giving us a toolkit for visual literacy. Jackson: It really does change how you look at everything. It’s like being given a pair of glasses that lets you see the hidden code behind the images. You can’t unsee it. Olivia: You can’t. And that’s the book’s power. It’s not about telling you what to think about a painting or an ad. Its purpose, as Berger himself said, was simply to "start a process of questioning." To reclaim our own way of seeing from those who want to mystify it for their own purposes. Jackson: It makes you wonder… what’s an image you've seen recently—in an ad, a movie, or on social media—that feels different to you now, after this conversation? I know I’ll be looking at my Instagram feed with a lot more suspicion. Olivia: That’s a great question for everyone to think about. We’d love to hear what you come up with. Share your thoughts with us on our social channels and let’s continue the conversation. Jackson: It’s a powerful reminder that the most important question isn't "is it beautiful?" but "who is using this language of images, and for what purpose?" Olivia: This is Aibrary, signing off.