Foreword by Nick Bantock
Writing about the relationship between art and magic is brave—witches have been burnt for less. Every day we’re flooded with images. From computer screens to billboards, we’re constantly being hit with fast pictures, transient representations not designed to linger or be carefully examined. And the more images we consume, the less time we have to ponder their content and meaning. Little by little we’re letting the magic of our sight diminish. Andy Warhol knew what he was doing with his “Marilyn” silkscreens. He was making something that could be seen in a glimpse: art that didn’t need in-depth observation; an icon for an icon, designed to minimize. That kind of self-conscious cynicism has led some to suggest that the second half of the twentieth century has seen commerce replace the magic in art. Imagine if you were living five hundred years ago. Your exposure to images would have been occasional at best, so if you found yourself in a villa or church, standing in front of a painting by Raphael, you were hardly likely to give it the same cursory glance that you’d give a Marilyn. You’d almost certainly take an eon or two to examine the picture, to assess what was within. I think we are losing our ability to slow down long enough to fully comprehend anything but bling, and that frantic pace is robbing us of our capacity to see that art can liberate us and give us xxv
