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Art is a language of caring, that is clearly realized in the roles of the conservator, preparator, archiving photographer, curator, security guard [the list goes on], and etc. Together, these roles become a family [in its ideal state of nurture] for a work of art, intending upon the task of keeping the objects at hand alive and thriving. And because art, thanks to modernism and its post, is primarily concerned with the history of individuality, each indexical gesture on the object is aligned with the concern and fascination of ‘what was this person thinking,’ or ‘how was this person feeling when they did this.’ Because this language of care is a byproduct of its maker no longer being able to do this on their own, or the investment of value an institution frames an artist and their work in, we begin to imagine the care they/we give as being reciprocal. If we are able to continue to hold an individual and their contributions close to our everyday lives, well after they’ve died or if they’re simply too far away to encounter, the repetition of this care allows us to imagine it happening for us, after we no longer live. Thus, another feedback loop is established and art’s particular methods of corresponding to the abstractions of death become a universal behavior and ritual, akin to that of any religion but separate because of contextualization.

For a beautifully constructed, operatic version of what I’ve been describing, please watch the TateShots video below. It’s a behind the scenes look at the Tate’s exhibition, Turner and The Masters.

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