The Art of Seeing: Why Your Screen Is Leaving You Spiritually Starved
We are living in a state of sensory overdose. Every single day, from the moment we wake up and reach for our devices, we are bombarded by a relentless stream of images, videos, and information. We carry this visual deluge in our pockets. We are forced to participate because modern life is inextricably linked to it.
But have you ever stopped to wonder: how much of this can we actually retain? Neurologically speaking, what kind of mark do these fleeting pixels leave on our memories?
The truth is, we are visually intoxicated. We are bloated on content, resembling an alcoholic who can no longer stand up because of the sheer volume of toxins in their blood. I know this because I have been sucked into this vortex myself. Even now, completely conscious of the trap, I still find myself falling into it. That is a testament to how powerfully these machines and algorithms have been engineered.
Don't get me wrong—the technology is miraculous. We hold the sum of human knowledge in the palm of our hands. Whatever sparks your interest is available instantly. But it comes paired with a catch: an algorithm tracking your every click, serving up a customized cocktail of ads and videos designed to keep you hooked.
Lately, I’ve had enough. I am grateful for this shift in my perspective. Recognizing the trap allows me to open my phone only when necessary, reclaiming my time and my mind.
The Digital Art Wave vs. The Physical Journey
This digital evolution has completely transformed the art world, changing how we expose work and connect globally. But it also makes me deeply nostalgic for my early days as an artist, back when experiencing art required physical movement. You had to travel. You had to walk into a gallery or a museum.
In the year 2000, I flew to New York City for the very first time. My mission was to visit the Chelsea district, the epicenter of contemporary art. I stayed for a month, having been commissioned to paint a mural in a private loft on 29th Street and Broadway—just a few blocks from Times Square, right in the heart of Manhattan.
I was young, ambitious, and full of dreams. (Not that I don’t have dreams today, they’ve just evolved!)
While there, I disciplined myself to visit only about four galleries a day. I knew intuitively that looking at any more would be too overwhelming to process. I took my time with each space, dedicating real energy to contemplate and understand each artwork as an individual creation. Art, after all, is an individual experience.
That trip was magic. I even managed to attend a Julian Schnabel opening at the Gagosian Gallery, brushing shoulders with the likes of David Bowie, Madonna, and Al Pacino. For a young artist, it was unbelievable.
That New York trip is still written under my skin. I learned invaluable lessons just by existing in that space. I also learned how brutal the art market can be. I tried showing my portfolio to numerous galleries, and most wouldn't even grant me the time of day. It was deeply depressing, but it was a necessary lesson. It didn't stop me from pursuing my dreams. Today, I feel immensely blessed for the life I live, even though the road getting here was anything but easy.
The Day Lucian Freud Made Me Cry
All of this brings me back to my core belief: the absolute necessity of seeing artwork in person.
When the master painter Lucian Freud passed away in 2011, I wasn't particularly moved. During my time at the College of Arts in Italy, we studied his work in textbooks and lectures, but his gritty realism was never really my thing.
A year later, I was visiting Paris and decided to check out a Lucian Freud retrospective at the Centre Pompidou. The exhibition was hosted on the top floor of that magnificent Renzo Piano building. The moment I crossed the threshold into the gallery space, something inside me switched.
I could immediately feel Lucian’s presence. It was intense. It was intoxicating.
I spent two hours pacing back and forth between the canvases. I stood inches away to dissect the heavy, deliberate brushstrokes, and then stepped back to contemplate them from a distance. The experience was extraordinary. I was completely transfixed; the work held a magnetic pull over me.
When I finally stepped outside the exhibit, the emotional weight hit me. I had to sit down on a bench to recover, and I unexpectedly started crying like a child.
Art Is an Experience, Not a JPEG
Digital evolution is a beautiful thing. Having the ability to see what is happening across the globe through a glass screen is a triumph of human engineering. But we must maintain the awareness that a digital image and a physical experience are two entirely different universes.
My own artworks, for example, are created on a very large scale. It is fundamentally impossible to truly feel or experience them through the tiny screen of a phone. A device can give you an idea of a painting, but it can never give you the experience.
Art is not meant to be scrolled past. It is an individual, immersive experience—and when you stand before it in the real world, it has the power to change who you are.
