A small survival guide for those who find themselves—by accident or by intention—somewhere between art and prosecco.
(This text is meant with a wink.)
It may already have happened to the esteemed reader: you are dragged to an opening. A friend is exhibiting, an acquaintance knows the gallerist, someone promised decent wine and small sandwiches—and before you know it, you are standing in front of a three-meter-wide canvas with a red square on it, while a man with round glasses and a scarf in August turns to you and asks, “So, what does it evoke for you?”
I will admit this quite openly: I enjoy spending time in galleries. Not only out of professional curiosity as a photographer, but also out of genuine pleasure in entering spaces where people look very seriously at things that sometimes resemble a fallen radiator with a concept attached to it. I have, however, never studied art history, nor have I ever felt the need to arm myself with terms like “post-material spatial tension” over a glass of red wine.
And, to be honest, I am not there to appear particularly intelligent or to scatter art-historical terminology like a mediocre magician throwing playing cards. I go to galleries to see. To gather inspiration. To observe how works are presented, how spaces function, how light is used, how scale alters perception—how a single work on a wall can suddenly say more than twenty densely hung side by side. One expands one’s horizon there. Or at least, one should. Art is not a vocabulary test; it is training for the eye.
My approach is therefore rather simple: look, think, let it work—and occasionally survive socially with a well-measured amount of half-knowledge.
Art viewing, after all, works surprisingly similar to wine tasting. You smell the glass, narrow your eyes slightly, and then say with calm certainty: “Blue hydrangea. Clearly.” Whether it is true is secondary. What matters is that you say it as if it could not possibly be anything else. The same applies in a gallery: hardly anyone truly understands everything, but almost everyone understands the ritual of understanding.
In such moments, there are two possible approaches. The first is honesty. You say, “It reminds me of a poorly parked frozen pizza.” That is human, but socially risky. The second option is cultivated improvisation. You say things that sound meaningful without committing yourself to verifiable facts. This is where a rather useful cultural skill begins.
So that you are no longer defenseless among installations made of rusty wire and conceptual nudity, here are ten sentences that almost always work. They are elegant enough to sound intelligent—and vague enough to be irrefutable.
“Interesting how tension and emptiness are being handled here.”
Works every time. Even when there is nothing there. Especially then.
“I’m fascinated by this deliberate break between form and expectation.”
No one will question it, because no one wants to admit they didn’t see the break.
“This work demands time. It doesn’t reveal itself at first glance.”
Particularly useful when it still doesn’t reveal itself at the third glance.
“I find this ambivalence very strong.”
Ambivalence is the lifeboat of art criticism. When in doubt: ambivalence.
“There’s something almost uncomfortable about it—and that’s exactly what makes it compelling.”
Ideal for works you actually dislike.
“The reduction here is, in itself, a form of luxury.”
A safe hit with minimalism. A perfect hit with a blank sheet of paper.
“I’m less interested in the motif than in the attitude behind it.”
Excellent when you have no idea what the motif is.
“It’s formally very consistent, yet emotionally still open.”
Sounds like you studied art history—and developed commitment issues.
“One can feel that this is not decoration, but genuine thought.”
Slightly arrogant, but therefore socially effective.
“It vaguely reminds me of the late phase of …”
Here you have complete freedom. You can say Mark Rothko, Francis Bacon, Cy Twombly or Joseph Beuys—that will work reliably. But you can just as well use the name of a former classmate or your dentist. If no one knows the name, it does not sound wrong—on the contrary, it suggests insider knowledge.
What matters is not only what you say, but how you say it. Speak slowly. Nod rarely, but meaningfully. Never look at the price tag immediately—that reveals the amateur. And if you are directly asked what the work actually means, answer calmly: “I think it’s less about a statement and more about a state.”
Then take a sip of wine. Preferably with the expression of someone who has just discovered a subtle ambivalence there as well.