Learning To See With Eyes Wide Open
To know and care, we first need to see
A few days ago, whilst in London perhaps for the last time before I hopefully move up North, I visited a building that always pays dividends for a few hours spent there, full to the brim, as it is, with wonders and delights. The British Museum. Packed, it was, in another sense, too. Eager and expectant tourists, a diverse Smörgåsbord of nationalities, thronged the halls as densely packed together as a tin of sardines. One commonality, though, united them all; the object they clasped in their hands: a smartphone.
This little device seemed to be the essential tool for “enjoying” the delights of the museum as from what I could see, no object or exhibit could be enjoyed without holding a smartphone up to it. Though, I would hazard a guess that it was this device that instead frustrated the intentions and wishes of the museum curators more than anything else. It was the smartphone that was the chief impediment to awe in the halls of wonder, the smartphone that was the chief impediment to knowing and learning in the realms of ancient knowledge, and the smartphone that was the chief impediment to seeing, beholding, and contemplating in the very place designed to induce such observational virtues.
At times, the sight of a multitude of smartphone wielding visitors was disturbingly ugly; a vain modern tragedy juxtaposed amidst the ancient and profound. The Rosetta Stone was treated as one would a Hollywood celebrity, with a desperately hustling and bustling paparazzi suffocating it, all trying to get their shot of the famous ancient inscriptions. Few, if any, stopped to pause and wonder what these symbols and characters mean nor the cultural and historical significance of this tablet. Not that they would have had the chance to anyway. The reflective person would be considered as an obstacle, grossly selfish, standing in the way of others wanting their shot. Knowing all this, I moved on to other worthy objects that seemed to be gathering less of this unwanted attention.
What I found most fascinating as I ambled through the halls full of wondrous artefacts was how few people actually saw the objects in front of them. Mostly, they saw them mediated through a device — they merely saw an image on their screen and not the real thing. They may have briefly glanced at the object, enough to register its existence, but they then quickly positioned their smartphone in front of it. Tragically, this deprived the observer of the full glory of these artefacts as the screen inevitably reduced them, both in size and dimension (not to mention colour and lustre). What the observer was left with was a poor reflection of the awe and wonder right in front of them. But they got their shot to put on Instagram.1
What made this all so pitiful and almost repulsive was not only the vanity of the smartphone mediated experience, but also the gross display of consumerism. No space is free from consumerism’s contaminating influence, even those places where quality and awe reign supreme. The objects in the museum were not put here to be consumed, but to be enjoyed, marvelled at, and to take one’s breath away. But all that was taken away on this day was thousands upon thousands of snaps converted into the currency of digital likes and comments. Masterpieces reduced to a “look what I saw” Instagram post. Vanity of vanities.
I say all this rather ruefully, as I fore well know that I have been guilty of this reduction and consumption in the past. My computer files contain pictures from museums that I will never take the time to review. Those trips have been a waste. I remember little from my visits and was not affected by what I saw. The chief endeavour to stand in awe and to learn, to notice, to wonder slipped me by. This time though was different. Though I did take a few photographs, this was only after standing and contemplating some select objects for a few minutes, noticing little details I otherwise would have missed. This carefully curated portfolio of images now stands as a memory jogger rather than my entire memory in and of itself. Needless to say, this was my most enjoyable visit to a museum for quite some time.
To stop, to notice, to see is a rare disposition in our modern world. Far too much “looking” is done unintentionally or casually, never perceiving the essence of the object or the wonder it imparts. This is not only the case in museums and galleries, but also out in nature, in our work places, and even in our own homes. Why lamenting this is so important is because seeing rightly is essential for knowing, and knowing is essential for love, and love is essential for care. And we live in a world that is in desperate need of care. Just look around you at all the broken, shattered, and burnt out lives, dilapidated and decaying buildings, and abused and degraded fields and forests. If you can’t immediately recall anything that fits these descriptions, it is because you haven’t looked long and hard enough. And where you are suffers because of this.
The farmer who truly sees his fields knows them intimately. He sees the inevitable scars his machines and ploughs engrave on his soils and he takes the time to remediate, through time consuming and costly care, the scars he has left. The birdwatcher sees the many beautiful species that inhabit her neighbourhood. As she delights in them and comes to know their needs and names, she desires to act as their advocate and protector in a society that seems bent on extracting every last ounce of goodness from creation, thus leaving precious little for our fellow creatures to enjoy.
Seeing leads to knowing, and knowing to love. And love leads to care. Seeing truly is thus an act of healing.
Without seeing, opening our eyes, and putting down our screens we deprive ourselves of experiencing the deep emotions of joy, awe, and love. We will never be truly affected and moved to care — and the world will suffer from want of being truly seen and truly known. We will have missed our truest and deepest calling: to see the world, and all it contains, as it truly is — in all its awesome beauty and its deep brokenness — and to love it still.2 With hearts and eyes wide open.
If just 10% of my readers tipped $/£1 this essay would pay for itself in the amount of time that has gone into it.
Further reading
Wendell Berry Reading Group
I have not forgotten about this group for my paid subscribers (discount code for new paid subscribers below). Life has been fairly busy at the moment, but I have some time coming up. A participant mentioned it would be good to have a session where instead of looking at an essay, we discuss how to apply Wendell Berry’s thought to our own lives and places. That is what the next session will be about — an open discussion session looking solely at application. I shall be sending an email soon about some possible dates.
Or, (to really hit home) for Substack Notes…
See Steven Graber, Visions of Vocation. IVP.
I always admire the people taking time to sketch what they see in museums and galleries. That feels like a way to go deep into the subject. I am terrible at drawing so it isn't something I do, but have encouraged my far more gifted children to do so.
What should be so natural that would not require mentioning, has become so obscure, that makes the essay revelatory: let's use our own senses first! We really do not need the mediation of this intrusive electronic device to sense the world. A smartphone does not enhance; it hampers our experience.
I've learned to keep my phone (yes, I use it occasionally) in a protective cover, in a pocket of my backpack. Hands free, sight attentive, mind open. Strongly recommend!