On Modern Art, Perception, and the Stories We Tell Ourselves

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There’s a moment in an old Columbo episode — Season 4, Episode 5 — that’s both hilarious and strangely profound. The detective, ever unassuming in his wrinkled coat and wandering mind, finds himself in an art gallery. He walks past abstract sculptures, expressionist canvases, and confidently titled installations. His gaze lands on a bold, industrial-looking piece jutting from the wall. Curious, he turns to the curator and asks, “How much is that one?”

The curator, without missing a beat, replies: “That’s the air conditioning duct.”

Laughter aside, there’s something deeply revealing in that exchange. It touches on a collective unease — the blurry territory between what is art and what looks like art. Between intention and accident. Between object and meaning.

Modern and contemporary art have long challenged the assumption that beauty, skill, or clarity are prerequisites for artistic value. A urinal became a sculpture. A canvas covered in one colour became a meditative field. A pile of bricks, when placed carefully in a gallery, became an invitation to rethink permanence and space.

In this context, Columbo’s innocent mistake becomes a mirror. Not a mockery of the art world, but a reflection of how much we rely on cues — frames, labels, reputations, price tags — to tell us what deserves our attention. Without those cues, our instinct might dismiss what’s right in front of us as mere ventilation.

When we encounter modern art, we often ask: What am I looking at?

But a better question might be: What am I willing to see?

Columbo saw something sculptural in the ductwork because it stood out. Because it disrupted the space. Because it invited curiosity — perhaps more than some of the actual artworks in the room. His perception wasn’t wrong; it just wasn’t framed by art-world logic.

In this way, art becomes a game of thresholds. When does object become artwork? When does intention meet interpretation? And how much do we allow ourselves to trust our own response?

As an artist, I often think about this moment. About how art lives not just in materials, but in how we encounter them. I’ve seen people pause longer in front of a broom leaning in a corner than in front of a painting that took weeks to complete. And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe art isn’t only what is made, but also what is noticed.

Columbo, in his baffled way, reminds us of something sacred: we all have the right to look, to feel, to decide. Whether we’re fooled or inspired — or both — the act of seeing is its own creative gesture.