Probably, many readers of this brief article will have read, or at least heard of, the seminal book The Story of Art, published by Ernst Gombrich in 1950—arguably the most popular book on art ever written. In 1956, Gombrich delivered six A.W. Mellon Lectures at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., which formed the basis of his groundbreaking book Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation, published in 1960. In this work, Gombrich investigates the intricate landscape of art perception, arguing that seeing is not a passive, merely optical process. Rather, it is an active interpretation—a skill that can be learned and is profoundly influenced by past experiences and cultural contexts. This distinction between looking and seeing remains as relevant today as it was 65 years ago.
In my years at the Yemisi Shyllon Museum of Art, I have had countless conversations with visitors who tell me they “do not know how to appreciate art.” Some hesitate before a painting, unsure of what they are supposed to feel or understand. Others walk through the galleries quickly, scanning labels and moving on without really engaging. These encounters have made me reflect on how we experience art and how often we mistake looking for seeing. In Art and Illusion, Gombrich argues that perception is inherently subjective, shaped by memory, learning, and visual expectations. When he says, “The innocent eye is a myth,” he challenges the naive notion that we perceive things exactly as they are. Instead, we interpret what we see through the lens of prior knowledge and expectations. I would add that perception is not only subjective but must be intentional. To perceive, we must first truly see. Looking is not enough.
The act of engaging with an artwork grows in delicate layers, moving from the casual to the contemplative: looking, seeing, enjoying, and finally, appreciating. Each step draws the viewer into a richer dialogue with the piece, summoning the senses, the heart, and the intellect in a careful succession. Looking is the most ephemeral of encounters—a momentary gesture, a mere brush of the eye against an artwork’s surface. It is the hurried glance of a traveller passing through unfamiliar streets, a casual acknowledgment of beauty without the burden of contemplation. I see it frequently at the museum: visitors drifting from one artwork to another, their eyes grazing colours and forms, pausing only long enough to read a label and claim they have “seen” a famous piece. Yet not all who look will see. To look is easy. To see is something else entirely. It is an act of intention, a deepening of vision. It demands attention and perception to uncover details and meanings.
In this environment, looking becomes a reflex, a habit rather than an act of engagement. In a museum or a gallery, we look upon paintings because they are famous, sculptures because they are positioned before us, photographs because they intersect our path. Yet to look is not to see, and in passing too quickly, we risk missing the invitation each work extends: to pause, to dwell, to enter. Seeing, in contrast, is an active and personal process involving attention, perception, and interpretation. It is not easy to transition from merely looking to truly seeing, to notice details, patterns, relationships, and subtle nuances within an artwork. Seeing demands patience. It asks that we surrender to discovery, to the possibility of revelation. To see is to pause, to allow the eyes to rest and the mind to awaken. It is when colours intensify, details emerge, and the artwork transforms from a distant object to a living presence, quietly whispering its story.
To see is to question, to wonder at intention, to ask why a line curves as it does, why a brushstroke hesitates, why that bronze sculpture shines differently. It is about recognising not just the work, but also one’s response to it. In this moment, art transforms from distant artifact to living presence, something that speaks.
Seeing, unlike mere looking, is not a neutral process. “The way we see an artwork is shaped by our previous experiences and knowledge. These do not replace our direct visual experience but reveal new layers, sharpen perception, and deepen our engagement with the work. Consider two visitors before Uche Okeke’s painting Conflict at the Yemisi Shyllon Museum of Art. The first visitor is an art historian, well-versed in Nigerian modernism. She immediately recognises the influence of Okeke’s Nsukka School and the Uli aesthetic, the traditional Igbo linear motifs that Okeke helped revive. She sees the composition’s jagged energy and recalls that this work was inspired by a passage from Things Fall Apart. She understands that the visual struggle on the canvas echoes the novel’s themes—the clash of cultures, the tension between tradition and modernity, the deep fractures in a changing society. For her, Conflict is not only an artwork but a conversation between literature, history, and identity. The second visitor has no prior knowledge of Okeke, Uli art, or Achebe’s novel. But standing before Conflict, he feels something—a visceral unease, a sense of turmoil in the way the lines twist and push against each other. The colours seem to vibrate, the composition feels almost restless. He may not have the words to explain it, but he senses the emotion in the piece, the underlying tension that gives it life.
To truly see and appreciate a work of art, rather than merely look at it, one must engage in a slow, deliberate dialogue with the piece. This is not a hurried exchange but an intimate conversation, a patient unfolding of meaning that requires time and attention.
When people ask me how they can learn to appreciate art, my answer is always the same: start by stillness and slow looking. Take time to observe an artwork. Let the eyes linger, resisting the urge to move on too quickly. The longer one remains before an artwork, the more it reveals. In front of a great artwork, what first seemed simple becomes layered, intricate, alive, rich. A second step is to observe closely and describe what is seen, not in broad strokes but in the language of detail. What is the composition? How are the figures arranged? What kind of brushstrokes are used? What is the texture of the surface? Engaging with specifics forces the viewer to move beyond a general impression and into a more meaningful connection with the work.
Then, ask questions. Why does this figure turn away? What story lingers in the folds of that fabric? How does light sculpt the space, and what mood does it conjure? Questions are doorways into the soul of an artwork, each one inviting a new layer of understanding. They transform passive looking into active inquiry, drawing forth interpretations that can be personal and profound. Seeing often requires shifting perspective, stepping closer, then further away, allowing the composition to settle, its balance and movement becoming clear. A very useful exercise is to compare one work to another, allowing them to speak to each other across time and style. I have seen how a single painting can gain new meaning when placed beside another, how contrasts and similarities make certain details suddenly stand out.
Neither experience is more valid than the other. The historian’s knowledge allows her to “see” layers of meaning, to place the artwork within a broader narrative. But the second visitor, though unaware of its context, is still touched by its raw power. Art speaks in multiple languages. Knowledge can give us something else, but it is not a requirement to appreciate and enjoy an artwork.
In Art and Illusion, Gombrich introduces the concept of the “beholder’s share,” arguing that we do not merely see what is in front of us but, in a sense, construct what we perceive. A painting is never immediately understood in its entirety; rather, we approach it with preconceptions, visual habits, and cognitive frameworks.
Learning to see is, therefore, a process of refining this interaction, making it more conscious, informed, and receptive. It is only when we have seen an artwork this way that we can start enjoying it, the moment of delight when a work stirs something within. Perhaps, a sudden affinity, a quiet thrill, a recognition of beauty that transcends reason. Enjoying an artwork involves an emotional response, where a work resonates aesthetically or emotionally with the viewer. Enjoyment is visceral, felt in the gut, in the quickening of the pulse, in the way a single brushstroke, an unexpected shade of blue, or the texture of wood can linger in the mind long after one has walked away. And, after enjoyment, appreciation follows, deeper and more measured. It is here that admiration takes form, that the craft of the artist reveals itself—the skill, the choices, the layers of meaning embedded in pigment, material, form and images. To appreciate is to understand not only with the heart but also to grasp the interplay of history, technique, and creative intent.
True seeing is an awakening. It marks the moment when the eye slows, when perception deepens, when an artwork becomes not just an object but a world unto itself. And this can happen anywhere, not only within the walls of a museum. The way light embraces a figure, the way a landscape breathes with colour, the tension between shadow and form reveal themselves only to those who truly attend. That is why is so important to learn to see. Ultimately, to see is to surrender to the artwork’s unfolding, allowing it to reveal itself gradually through patience and presence. It is an act of immersion, a willingness to listen with the eyes and think with the senses. In this way, art is no longer just an object to be observed but an experience to be lived.
•Castellote PhD is the director, Yemisi Shyllon Museum of Art, Pan-Atlantic University
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