Part 2: Does Universal Kitsch Even Exist?
In the first part of this series, we explored a deceptively simple question: What is kitsch? The deeper we looked, the more elusive the answer became. Hermann Broch saw kitsch as a flight from truth. Clement Greenberg described it as pre-packaged emotion. Milan Kundera viewed it as a world cleansed of contradiction, suffering and everything uncomfortable about human existence. All of these definitions contain valuable insights. Yet they share a hidden assumption. They assume that we already know what we are talking about. They assume that kitsch is something we can identify with reasonable certainty. But what if that certainty itself is an illusion?
Imagine four people standing in front of the same image: a Viennese visitor, a Roman, a Madrileño and a Japanese observer. The image could be almost anything: a rose, a sunset, a religious painting or Raphael’s famous angels. Would all four viewers reach the same conclusion? Most of us instinctively believe they would. If something is kitsch, then surely it is kitsch for everyone. The more one thinks about the question, however, the less convincing that assumption becomes. What if the Viennese viewer sees sentimentality while the Roman sees beauty? What if the Spaniard sees genuine emotion while the Japanese viewer sees a symbol deeply connected to ideas that the others do not even recognise? Who is right? Perhaps all of them. Perhaps none of them. Perhaps the problem lies in the question itself.
For centuries, Western culture has cherished the idea of good taste. We speak of taste as though it were a measurable quality, something that can be identified, refined and defended. We praise certain works as sophisticated and dismiss others as vulgar. We often assume that our own judgements are based on observation, while the judgements of others are based on ignorance. Yet taste is rarely as objective as we would like to believe.
The French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu devoted much of his work to this uncomfortable reality. His central argument was remarkably simple: taste is not merely personal. It is learned. It is shaped by family, education, social environment and cultural background. Much of what we experience as individual preference is, in fact, the result of a long process of cultural conditioning. This does not mean that all judgements are equal or that standards do not exist. It does mean, however, that our standards may not be as universal as we imagine.
A person raised in a household filled with books, concerts and museums will often develop different aesthetic instincts from someone whose cultural experiences were shaped elsewhere. Neither perspective emerges from a vacuum. Both are products of experience. Perhaps this explains why discussions about art so often become discussions about identity. When we defend our taste, we are often defending far more than a preference. We are defending a way of seeing the world.
Travel makes this easier to notice. Anyone who spends time in different countries eventually encounters situations where something considered excessive in one culture appears perfectly natural in another. Italy offers countless examples. Many northern Europeans associate Italian culture with emotion, opera, religious processions, theatricality and grand gestures. Like all stereotypes, this one is incomplete. Yet it contains enough truth to be useful.
Italian culture has long embraced emotional expression in forms that would sometimes make northern Europeans uncomfortable. Opera is built on passion. Baroque art is built on movement, intensity and emotional impact. Religious festivals frequently combine beauty, drama and collective feeling in ways that are difficult to separate. What some observers interpret as excessive sentiment, others experience as authenticity. A German-speaking critic may ask whether something contains too much emotion. An Italian may wonder why emotion should be considered a problem in the first place. The boundary between genuine feeling and sentimentality does not lie in the same place for everyone.
Spain offers another fascinating variation. While the word kitsch exists, conversations often revolve around concepts such as cursi. The term is difficult to translate precisely. It suggests something overly sentimental, artificial, self-conscious or emotionally exaggerated. The distinction may appear subtle, but it changes the discussion profoundly. In many Spanish contexts, the central question is not whether something is beautiful or tasteful. The deeper question is whether the emotion feels authentic.
Spain possesses a rich cultural tradition built around powerful emotional expression. Flamenco, Holy Week processions, poetry, music and literature all demonstrate a remarkable willingness to engage openly with passion, longing and sorrow. Emotion itself is not suspicious. Artificial emotion is. While a northern European critic may object to an abundance of feeling, a Spanish observer is often more interested in whether the feeling rings true. The same image can therefore generate entirely different responses depending on who is looking at it.
The further we move from our own cultural assumptions, the more fragile the idea of universal kitsch becomes. Japan provides a particularly illuminating example. Many Western visitors initially encounter Japanese aesthetics through cherry blossoms, delicate seasonal imagery, kawaii culture and an extraordinary appreciation of beauty in everyday life. To some European observers, parts of this visual world may seem overly decorative or sentimental. Yet such reactions often reveal more about the observer than about Japan itself.
Cherry blossoms are not merely decorative flowers. They are deeply connected to ideas of impermanence, mortality and the fleeting nature of existence. Their beauty matters precisely because it does not last. What appears to be simple decoration can carry layers of cultural meaning accumulated over centuries. The flower remains the same. The interpretation changes. And perhaps that is the point. The more examples we examine, the harder it becomes to believe that kitsch exists as a purely objective quality.
Consider Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss. The original hangs in a museum. Few people would call it kitsch. Now imagine the same image appearing in a high-quality art book. Most viewers remain comfortable with that. Next it becomes a poster. Then a greeting card. Then a silk scarf. Then a coffee mug. Then a tote bag. Eventually, perhaps, it appears on underwear.
At what precise moment does the transformation occur?
Where exactly is the line?
Most people feel that the line exists. Almost nobody can define where it is.
That uncertainty is revealing. The artwork itself has not changed. Klimt has not repainted the image. The colours remain the same. The composition remains the same. What changes is the context. The museum invites contemplation. The coffee mug invites consumption. The scarf invites fashion. The underwear invites amusement. The image remains constant while its function changes repeatedly.
Perhaps kitsch does not emerge solely from the object. Perhaps it emerges from the relationship between the object and the viewer. That possibility leads to another uncomfortable observation. Most people are remarkably good at identifying kitsch in the possessions of others. The neighbour has kitsch. The tourists have kitsch. The souvenir shops have kitsch. The people with garden ornaments have kitsch. Our own preferences, however, usually appear perfectly reasonable.
This is worth pausing over. If taste is culturally shaped, then our own preferences should be subject to the same scrutiny we apply to everyone else’s. Yet we rarely place them under suspicion. We assume they are simply normal. Perhaps this is because taste is not only an aesthetic judgement. Perhaps it is also a declaration of belonging. When we approve of something, we often affirm our membership in a particular cultural tribe. When we dismiss something as kitsch, we may be drawing a boundary between ourselves and others.
As a photographer, I cannot entirely avoid this problem myself. Roses appear frequently in my work. To some viewers they seem poetic. To others they appear romantic. Some see references to symbolism, art history and cultural memory. Others may see nothing more than a cliché. Who is correct?
The longer I think about it, the less convinced I become that only one answer can be right. The rose itself remains silent. We provide the meanings. One person associates roses with love. Another with funerals. Another with religious symbolism. Another with Valentine’s Day cards. Perhaps the same principle applies to angels, sunsets, love poems and many other subjects that repeatedly attract accusations of kitsch. The object remains unchanged. The viewer changes. The culture changes. The associations change. And the judgement changes with them.
The longer I explore this subject, the more sceptical I become of the idea that universal kitsch truly exists. Certainly there is bad art. Certainly there are cheap emotional tricks and manipulative effects. Yet between those things and our personal judgements lies another layer entirely: culture, experience, memory and habit. Perhaps that explains why the same rose can be seen as profound art, romantic decoration or sentimental cliché. Not because the rose has changed, but because we have.
In the third and final part of this series, we will turn to an even more uncomfortable question. Why do beauty, harmony, romance and the human body so often fall under suspicion? Why do modern audiences seem far more wary of beauty than previous generations? And what does that tell us about ourselves?
Perhaps more than we would like to admit.of all things, beauty, harmony, romance, and the human body again and again kitsch suspicion? Why do we seem to distrust the beauty of today is far more than previous generations?
And what does that say about our time?
Perhaps more than we would like.