<p>During a recent visit to Zurich, your columnist visited its famous Kunsthaus Museum. It is a fine place with high ceilings, muted lighting and a reverent hush interrupted only by the squeak of shoes. The walls are hung with works by the greats – Renoir, Van Gogh, Monet – each name capable of prompting a sigh of admiration. Yet for those of us who confuse Monet with Manet, the museum offers less uplift than a test of acting skills. To stroll through without appearing knowledgeable is simply not done. Hence this short manual. The first rule is posture. True connoisseurs never stand squarely before a painting. Instead they lean back, cock the head and, most importantly, scratch the chin. Two fingers, never three, placed on the left cheek suggest not mere looking, but thinking. A painting may depict nothing more than a vase of sunflowers, but the viewer must act as though confronting the riddles of Plato.</p><p>Next comes vocabulary. It is rarely necessary to understand what one is saying, but it must sound convincing. Certain words are reliable – “composition,” “light” and “movement.” A visitor gazing at a Renoir might murmur, “Ah, the composition draws the eye effortlessly.” Standing before a Van Gogh, one could add, “Notice the turbulence as he captures the movement of the soul.” And when Monet’s waterlilies swim into view, the line is – “The light here is transcendent.” For the ambitious, sprinkle in “palette” and “brushwork.” Used sparingly, they make even banal remarks sound authoritative. Silence is equally potent. Stand immobile for thirty seconds, long enough to seem thoughtful but not so long that the guard assumes you are planning theft. When breaking silence, do so with a low “hmm,” as if solving a philosophical conundrum. Others, equally unsure of what they are admiring, will nod in respect.</p><p>Movement matters. Rushing from gallery to gallery betrays the tourist. The true admirer strolls slowly, occasionally doubling back. If confronted by something baffling, say a canvas painted entirely white, lean in and whisper – “The absence is the point.” This line works for most of modern art. Museums are social theatres. When overhearing a stranger pronounce knowingly on brush technique, resist questions. Instead, nod gravely and say “Indeed.” If conversation cannot be avoided, rely on vague pronouncements – “This period was so transitional.” Few dare challenge such claims. Body language is instructive. True art-lovers cluster around Renoir or Van Gogh, scratching chins in synchrony, like a colony of thoughtful meerkats. To join them is to gain legitimacy by osmosis. Standing alone before an obscure canvas risks raising expectations. Better to hover discreetly around the obvious masterpieces.</p><p>Attire also matters. Scarves in muted tones lend continental sophistication. Glasses, required or not, are a useful prop. Lowering them slightly on the nose enhances credibility. A notebook, carried but never written in, signals scholarly intent. A tote bag, from another more fashionable museum, is an added display. Nothing suggests worldliness quite like a Tate Modern canvas bag swung casually over the shoulder in Zurich. Finally, the gift shop. The aspiring connoisseur must select postcards of “favourite works.” Van Gogh’s sunflowers are too obvious; Monet’s waterlilies too cliché. A Renoir sketch or lesser-known landscape suggests discernment. The irony is that genuine appreciation requires none of this. One might just as well confess ignorance, admit Monet’s brushwork is lovely without pretending to understand why. But such honesty is unfashionable. In the hushed chambers of the Kunsthaus, appearances matter. And so, as visitors scratch their chins, place two fingers thoughtfully upon their left cheek and utter phrases about “light” and “movement,” they practise not art appreciation, but the performance of appreciation itself. </p><p>Which, in its own way, is an art form!</p>
<p>During a recent visit to Zurich, your columnist visited its famous Kunsthaus Museum. It is a fine place with high ceilings, muted lighting and a reverent hush interrupted only by the squeak of shoes. The walls are hung with works by the greats – Renoir, Van Gogh, Monet – each name capable of prompting a sigh of admiration. Yet for those of us who confuse Monet with Manet, the museum offers less uplift than a test of acting skills. To stroll through without appearing knowledgeable is simply not done. Hence this short manual. The first rule is posture. True connoisseurs never stand squarely before a painting. Instead they lean back, cock the head and, most importantly, scratch the chin. Two fingers, never three, placed on the left cheek suggest not mere looking, but thinking. A painting may depict nothing more than a vase of sunflowers, but the viewer must act as though confronting the riddles of Plato.</p><p>Next comes vocabulary. It is rarely necessary to understand what one is saying, but it must sound convincing. Certain words are reliable – “composition,” “light” and “movement.” A visitor gazing at a Renoir might murmur, “Ah, the composition draws the eye effortlessly.” Standing before a Van Gogh, one could add, “Notice the turbulence as he captures the movement of the soul.” And when Monet’s waterlilies swim into view, the line is – “The light here is transcendent.” For the ambitious, sprinkle in “palette” and “brushwork.” Used sparingly, they make even banal remarks sound authoritative. Silence is equally potent. Stand immobile for thirty seconds, long enough to seem thoughtful but not so long that the guard assumes you are planning theft. When breaking silence, do so with a low “hmm,” as if solving a philosophical conundrum. Others, equally unsure of what they are admiring, will nod in respect.</p><p>Movement matters. Rushing from gallery to gallery betrays the tourist. The true admirer strolls slowly, occasionally doubling back. If confronted by something baffling, say a canvas painted entirely white, lean in and whisper – “The absence is the point.” This line works for most of modern art. Museums are social theatres. When overhearing a stranger pronounce knowingly on brush technique, resist questions. Instead, nod gravely and say “Indeed.” If conversation cannot be avoided, rely on vague pronouncements – “This period was so transitional.” Few dare challenge such claims. Body language is instructive. True art-lovers cluster around Renoir or Van Gogh, scratching chins in synchrony, like a colony of thoughtful meerkats. To join them is to gain legitimacy by osmosis. Standing alone before an obscure canvas risks raising expectations. Better to hover discreetly around the obvious masterpieces.</p><p>Attire also matters. Scarves in muted tones lend continental sophistication. Glasses, required or not, are a useful prop. Lowering them slightly on the nose enhances credibility. A notebook, carried but never written in, signals scholarly intent. A tote bag, from another more fashionable museum, is an added display. Nothing suggests worldliness quite like a Tate Modern canvas bag swung casually over the shoulder in Zurich. Finally, the gift shop. The aspiring connoisseur must select postcards of “favourite works.” Van Gogh’s sunflowers are too obvious; Monet’s waterlilies too cliché. A Renoir sketch or lesser-known landscape suggests discernment. The irony is that genuine appreciation requires none of this. One might just as well confess ignorance, admit Monet’s brushwork is lovely without pretending to understand why. But such honesty is unfashionable. In the hushed chambers of the Kunsthaus, appearances matter. And so, as visitors scratch their chins, place two fingers thoughtfully upon their left cheek and utter phrases about “light” and “movement,” they practise not art appreciation, but the performance of appreciation itself. </p><p>Which, in its own way, is an art form!</p>
