How do you appreciate an artwork?

Maybe you know at a glance whether it speaks to you. The mayhem of a Biblical crowd, or the serenity of an Alpine vista, or the ruddy cheeks of a woman at a desk, or a slab of black paint. What’s important is what the thing is. You transport yourself into the scene, identify with the subject, lose yourself in the colour. Everything is immediate. You’re in that crowd, you’re blushing, you’re by the creek. How does that make you feel?

Or maybe you’re drawn in not by the substance, but by the style. The pointillism of a Seurat, the primary colours of a Lichtenstein. The wide eyes and multicoloured hair of an anime girl. What’s exciting is there are so many different modes of expression. Every artist is unique, every creator draws on the cultures and schools and styles that came before her to make something unmistakably her own. The stylistic detail, the experimentation, the blending of disparate elements into a coherent whole. How does that make you feel?

Or maybe you linger over each brushstroke, study each shading line and crosshatch. The fluidity of a line, the solidity of a shape, the brashness of a gesture, the magnificence of a soaring arc. What’s impressive is the craft. You can picture the artist working tirelessly in her studio, trancelike, burning the midnight oil, the lines flowing from her brush like clockwork. Every last twig, every tenement window, every ruffle of the skirt wrought by the same deliberate hand, one after the other after the other with mathematical precision. You wonder how many months it took to make, how many years it took to plan, how many decades it took to hone the craft. You’re in the presence of a master, and the sheer technical virtuosity can make you weep. How does that make you feel?

Or maybe you just stand there looking contemplative. It’s art, and sure it looks pretty, and your mother took you to the museum this Sunday and you have to be on your best behaviour. There’s a nice brush-stroke village mounted on the wall, but your mind is racing with Neopets and boy bands and your eyes gloss over the caption on the placard.

Sometimes a friend will present me with an artwork. Perhaps it’s a drawing, but it could also be a song, or a film, or a story. Perhaps she created it, or perhaps someone else did and she stumbled upon it and it spoke to her. As much as she may try to hide it, we both know she’s watching me for a reaction. How does it make me feel?

And I know it’s silly to expect an artwork to induce the same reaction in everybody, but I secretly worry that I might not be reacting in the right way, giving her the signals she expects from an audience, laughing at the parts that were meant to be jokes, gasping at the lines that were meant to be twists, and it’s awkward for both of us.