![image.png](https://images.ecency.com/DQmNUQ6dABsQAFzmPgYxjXioec6J1iGRyiXwaFAynCZFy9P/image.png)
***
After being cooped up for so long, I admit I was starved for culture and (safe) human contact. Masked up and social-distancing, I was not prepared, however, for the van Gogh “exhibition.” The forty-five-minute experience (ideal timing) is also dreamlike, only more in the sense of a group psychedelic trip, where we the attendees “turn on, tune in, drop out,” letting the sound and light show wash over us. 

Unlike the Dalí experience, at the same museum, there are no gracefully mounted canvases for the museumgoers to slide up to, tilting their heads to sip and drink in the brushstrokes, all polite smiles and hushed appreciation. For those looking to be fine-tuned by the civilizing influence of Beauty—standing still and reflecting in the refracted light of another’s encounter with the Sublime—the van Gogh presented here is something of a shock to the fragile system. 
***
![image.png](https://images.ecency.com/DQmNTPZdw4E9EU2veu6jQMt9engAqDQWjhT9vJ5rh43Eufm/image.png)


***

Alone together, huddled in the dark, we are ravished by hundreds of beloved images by the postimpressionist Dutch painter—ecstatic sunflowers, swirly starry nights, moody self-portraits—cast on walls, ceilings, floors by high-definition projectors and accompanied by a musical score, from Ravel to Handel to Thom York and Édith Piaf. It’s an all-encompassing and overpowering, multisensory feast. 

At times, the already bold and dramatic art comes alive, with theatrical flourish, such as when crows in van Gogh’s atmospheric Wheatfield take flight, accompanied by rousing classical music and punctuated by the alarming sound of a gunshot.
***
![image.png](https://images.ecency.com/DQmWoupdBouWey88xdG6JLSmjPZx9Zb7kdPENtbcGH8QAg9/image.png)


***
Entertaining as all this might be, riveting even, is it necessary? Is it not enough to quietly admire the master’s soothing irises and uplifting almond blossoms in peace? Are special effects—such as drama, narrative, poetry, even music—not already built into great art? Can we not trust in the sacred communion between art and viewer to tease them out and leave one transported? Do the technical gimmicks, in ample display here, enhance or reduce our aesthetic experience? These are some of the questions that this ambitious production raises, which get to the heart of what art is, and how it should be appreciated.

But the unsubtle Van Gogh Alive is not quite an art exhibition. This strange beast aspires to be a form of edutainment, geared for an impatient, digital age, accustomed to overstimulation. When more is less, visual gluttony and an appetite for sound bites prevail, both of which this audiovisual spectacle caters to. 
***
![image.png](https://images.ecency.com/DQmek7FvBiYz39ihx2BpQU1QxsKRsaJVXwdAs2dmxrJpuGE/image.png)


***
Throughout this glorified Instagram story of the prolific, tragic nine-year career of van Gogh (who began painting at twenty-eight and took his life at thirty-seven), we are also treated to snatches from his letters accompanying the projected paintings, such as: “When I have a terrible need of—shall I say the word . . . religion, then I go out and paint the stars.” A perfect quote for the spiritual-but-not-religious seekers of today.

The result is a sense of unearned intimacy with Vincent, the man, but more likely The Myth of the Tortured Artist. Designed by Toronto company Lighthouse Immersive and Massimiliano Siccardi, it’s not unsurprising that the Van Gogh Alive features in Netflix’s Emily in Paris. Attending this event felt more like watching a movie than reading the book. The cynical response to the frenzy with which this show is being received would be that, in the damning estimation of Nietzsche, “most people prefer the copies to the originals.”
***
![image.png](https://images.ecency.com/DQmXT5ZK7oqLceoq87v8s34UB7gyYGEN27v9m7vWaZEshRm/image.png)


***
The charitable view, however, might counter by suggesting that this immersive experience, which opened during the pandemic, is queerly suited to our bewildering moment at hand. As we emerge from our cocoons, unsteady and blinking in the light, this is precisely the glut of escapist entertainment that we crave: part movie theater, part art gallery, part concert, carnival, and family outing all rolled into one over-the-top, pulsing totality.

But art appreciation is not a passive sport and requires time, care, and work on the viewer’s part before art surrenders its secrets. An original painting grants us access to elusive truths about our self and world by teaching us how to see and feel, differently and profoundly, thus making sense of our unfathomable longings. Great art is transformative that way and also transmits the artist’s perception, vision, and world (inner and outer). Mysteriously, mystically, even, art is a mummification of the spirit of the artist. Which is why something invaluable and ineffable is lost when a living painting is blown up and flattened against a wall. What is lost is the very soul of that painting.

In the final equation, the extravaganza dubbed Van Gogh Alive succeeds in being both overwhelming and underwhelming, leaving us overfed and undernourished. Good art is a conversation that, in silence, carves out a space for itself and for us to inhabit, wordlessly. If one feels stunned and a little hollow after this art assault, it is because we were denied the space to process or talk back to the work. The hope is that this dalliance with van Gogh will not satiate the hunger of promiscuous pop culture consumers but rather pique their curiosity to pursue a more meaningful and unfiltered meeting with the art itself.
***
This is an excerpt from my review in World Literature Today magazine; you can read the full article, [here](https://www.worldliteraturetoday.org/2022/january/trust-art-yahia-lababidi)