Some years ago I was having a conversation with a friend about favourite paintings in the National Gallery. Although we managed a shortlist, neither of us could decide on particular pieces so, to try and focus things, I think it was I who suggested: “what if the gallery was on fire and you only had enough time to rescue one piece before the ceiling collapsed?” This proved difficult for both of us. My choice was ‘Bacchus and Ariadne’ by Titian. I can’t remember what his was because he immediately upped the stakes, coming back at me with:
“So now imagine yourself in the burning gallery, the roof creaking ominously overhead and you’re there by the Titan, but in front of you an old lady lies hurt and incapable of standing. Do you carry out the painting, or her?” What could I say? It’d have to be the old lady that got saved. He agreed. We’d be monsters if we didn’t choose her.
But this wasn’t enough for him. He then asked me: “Ok, same situation, but now, instead of it being a choice between the old lady or the Titian, what if you find that a cat has got into the gallery somehow and you know for certain that it’s either the Titian or the cat?”
We pondered this for a bit, but finally both agreed that the cat would have to be saved first. Neither of us would ever be able to sleep peacefully again, imagining the terrified yowling of an animal we’d spurned in favour of a thing. Don’t get me wrong. I would probably risk my life trying to rescue a national treasure, but what is the point of art if it doesn’t make you understand better what it is to be human? Which is why I think Jonathan Jones, the art critic for the Guardian, is a twat.
Here’s his article:
Umbrellage 