What do Vermeer, van Gogh, Klimt and Monet have in common? They have all been assaulted. Canned soup, mashed potatoes and cake, among other things, were hurled at precious artworks by activists across the globe to draw attention to the climate catastrophe. Two weeks ago, Just Stop Oil activists threatened to start slashing paintings — they have consciously targeted works that are covered by glass thus far — in order to escalate their protests.
As long as it has been on public display, art has been under attack. From madmen (Laszlo Toth took a hammer to Michelangelo’s Pietà on imagined instructions from Virgin Mary) to artists (Robert Rauschenberg erased a drawing by his fellow artist, Willem de Kooning), many have found reasons to strike out at art. The current offensive, though, comprises neither fits of madness nor artistic rage. The closest parallel would be the suffragettes violently stabbing and destroying paintings to protest the arrest of Emmeline Pankhurst.
But why attack art? The reasons are manifold. First, there is the persistent belief that images in artworks carry an essence of life. When the suffragette, Mary Richardson, hacked Diego Velázquez’s The Toilet of Venus, she said it is the closest she could come to carrying out a human sacrifice. Then, there is its shock value. The attacks have received extensive coverage across international media, something that peaceful protests and petitions did not. The seeming absurdity of the blitzkrieg forced people to ask questions, leading many of them to discover some of the reasons behind the assault. Before dismissing this tactic, it must be noted that the activists have tried everything else, including drastic measures like self-immolation, which caused nary a blip in the media.
But shock wears off. Catering to the shallow logic of spectacle demanded by the media undermines the long-term viability of this movement. Everyone who sees photographs and footage of the attacks will have the same reaction: an astonished intake of breath, followed by the realisation that everything is actually fine and the artwork is safe behind glass. There are other risks. Instead of leading to conversations, more money could be diverted towards protecting art — this is exactly the kind of prioritisation of financial resources that is being protested. Italy is a case in point: it is considering covering all paintings in museums with glass. The non-reflective glass used to cover art is costly — a square yard would cost around $1,000.
Such expenses would eventually be passed on to viewers in the form of entry fees to museums, thereby limiting accessibility. This would be a real shame. Visiting a museum is about much more than appreciating great art. A stroll around the National Gallery to view its treasured landscape collection will reveal idylls that have been lost to agriculture and development. For instance, John Constable — his Hay Wain was one of the first pieces targeted by Just Stop Oil — painted remembered landscapes, those that had already been obliterated by industrialisation, both as a means of protest and as a reminder of what the world stood to lose. This is why he painted chimneys darkening the sky with carbon in his canvas, The Opening of Waterloo Bridge. These images remind us that climate change is about loss — of species, of liveable conditions, of beauty. They challenge viewers to move beyond shock and outrage, and towards action.
In posing a false choice between art and the environment, the soup protesters have merely alienated both art lovers and climate sympathisers.
