What Would Digital Art History Look Like?

Can the study of art history stop looking like ancient history itself? Can it transcend the old approaches and embrace the digital world? As digitized as art history has become in terms of merely creating online repositories of texts and images, it still lags in going fully digital in terms of using computers to aid in the analysis of art. A recent issue of Visual Resources: An International Journal of Documentation dedicated to the question of “Digital Art History” gathered experts in the field to weigh in on the potential advantages and disadvantages of studying art digitally. Is this a brave new world that will bring us closer than ever to understanding the great works of art, or will technology actually get in the way and separate us from the human element in the work, effectively erasing the traditional goal of studying art?

In their introduction to the special issue on Digital Art History, Murtha Baca and Anne Helmreich outline what they see as the five “phases” of art history going digital, which essentially add up to the evolution from digitizing to digital. Phase 1 was all about digitization to increase accessibility of texts and images (for example, The William Blake Archive and Vincent van Gogh: The Letters). In phase 2, scholars began creating tools such as Zotero and Omeka that “provide the infrastructure for collection building on a level accessible to the individual scholar.” “Such tools and platforms,” Baca and Helmreich argue, “also allow for collaboration that has changed the face of both research and teaching; participants can cross borders without leaving their desks, and students can become knowledge producers as well as consumers.”

New ways of seeing enter into the equation in phase 3, which features “new technologies for visualization, reconstructions, and virtual reality” such as the Virtual Burnham Initiative and the Deutsches Archäologische Institut’s AEgArOn: Ancient Egyptian Architecture Online; however, as the writers note, “these projects still rely on the concept of the curated collection,” leaving it still short of being fully digital. In phase 4, however, “new means of scholarly publishing” such as the Society of Architectural Historians’ shift to a multimedia edition of their journal and the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation’s Scholarly Publishing Initiatives represent a qualitative leap in the use of computer technology in art history. Finally, phase 5 “represents the leading edge of new modes of scholarly research enabled by computational analytics,” specifically “the shift from ‘close reading’ to ‘distant reading’ enabled by the assemblage of vast corpuses of digital data.” They cite The National Endowment for the HumanitiesDigging into Data Challenge as an example of this brand of “distant reading” harnessing the full potential of computers by art history. (Also within the issue is a “case study” of the ARTL@S project that promises “a ‘total’ art history: writing a serial, transnational, geographical, and multiscale art history that would also address social issues” through computational data mining. Go to the ARTL@S site yourself and start digging.)

Read as a whole, the individual articles of this issue of Visual Resources provide a full picture of the promise and pitfalls of Digital Art History for both the art history practitioner and the interested art history amateur (e.g., me). Johanna Drucker leads off the discussion by asking, “Is There a ‘Digital’ Art History?” Her answer, unsurprisingly, is no, net yet. “To date no research breakthrough has made the field of art history feel its fundamental approaches, tenets of belief, or methods are altered by digital work,” Druker writes. However, Druker allows herself to muse over what such a breakthrough would look like for the study of Jan van Eyck’s The Arnolfini Portrait. Truly digital art history would “track each of its material, physical, iconographic, compositional, stylistic, economic, ritual, and other features into their respective field of associations using an integrated array of computational techniques, image analysis, and close readings produced by combining digital technologies with network analysis and connoisseurship.” Druker believes that “[v]isual pattern recognition will alter art history.” In the case of The Arnolfini Portrait, we can, for example, “ask how many wives, women, or brides are shown possibly pregnant or anticipating pregnancy and what are the graphic indicators of the gravid condition? Such evidence might simply inflame old debates, or might put them to rest.” Druker ultimately presents a hopeful picture for digital art history’s future.

On the other, less optimistic end of the debate sits Nuria Rodríguez Ortega, author of “Digital Art History: An Examination of Conscience.” Where others see globalization through digital art history, Rodríguez Ortega sees just a continuation of the domination both of the English language and the Western art tradition. “[T]he supposedly global, universal access that is seen as one of the chief characteristics of the Web is,” Rodríguez Ortega argues, “in reality, a myth.” She cites UNESCO World Digital Library statistics as proof that, as much as we want to believe all the world’s plugged in, it isn’t. Non-English, non-internet capable scholars and art traditions find themselves on the outside looking in, as always, and a digital art history won’t solve that problem by itself.

Whereas Druker sees digital art history as something in the future, Rodríguez Ortega sees it here in the present, and doesn’t necessarily like what she sees. “I believe that the digital factor has fully penetrated the study of the history of art,” Rodríguez Ortega counters. “For example, the technology of high-resolution images and zooming leads us to a sort of forensic approach to art history, based on the search for previously hidden details, enabling us to put forth new interpretive hypotheses about works of art.” Unfortunately, we’re now in jeopardy in falling in love with the “zoom” to the point of missing the work as a whole.  Certainly, this magnification of images allows us to detect figurative or plastic elements that would be otherwise imperceptible to the naked eye. In this “process of transforming the object of our study from the artistic artifact itself to the digital image of that artifact,” we might begin seeing works such as Vincent Van Gogh’s 1889 painting Starry Night not as the work of a cosmic visionary and more as a collection of brush strokes to be catalogued through extreme magnification via Google Art Project. Most importantly, such tech-driven analysis might make human-driven analysis disappear. Scholars could end up “not having the critical tools for thinking about the digital art history that we are attempting to produce” by digital means. It’s analogous to kids unable to subtract because of calculators, but instead of being unable to make change when the register’s broken, these are the people trying to preserve and understand our collective culture unable to think critically because they’ve become reliant on a computer to “think” for them.

I’m always excited about the latest digital art history gadget. I’ve spent many an hour mesmerized by the zoom feature of Google Art Project. The idea of visiting collections virtually that I may never get to see physically is something I couldn’t even imagine happening as a child. But in the middle of all that excitement, I try to remind myself that there’s still a disconnect between me and the image on the screen and that the most important part being disconnected is the human element embedded in that work. As this issue of Visual Resources proves, there’s an important debate to be had over how art history should go digital, if it ever will.

[Image: Vincent Van Gogh. Starry Night, 1889. Extreme magnification via Google Art Project.]

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Why compassion fades

A scientific look into a ubiquitous phenomenon.

Photo credit: Adrian Swancar on Unsplash
Sex & Relationships

One victim can break our hearts. Remember the image of the young Syrian boy discovered dead on a beach in Turkey in 2015? Donations to relief agencies soared after that image went viral. However, we feel less compassion as the number of victims grows. Are we incapable of feeling compassion for large groups of people who suffer a tragedy, such as an earthquake or the recent Sri Lanka Easter bombings? Of course not, but the truth is we aren't as compassionate as we'd like to believe, because of a paradox of large numbers. Why is this?

Compassion is a product of our sociality as primates. In his book, The Expanding Circle: Ethics, Evolution, and Moral Progress, Peter Singer states, "Human beings are social animals. We were social before we were human." Mr. Singer goes on to say, "We can be sure that we restrained our behavior toward our fellows before we were rational human beings. Social life requires some degree of restraint. A social grouping cannot stay together if its members make frequent and unrestrained attacks on one another."

Attacks on ingroups can come from forces of nature as well. In this light, compassion is a form of expressed empathy to demonstrate camaraderie.

Yet even after hundreds of centuries of evolution, when tragedy strikes beyond our community, our compassion wanes as the number of displaced, injured, and dead mounts.

The drop-off in commiseration has been termed the collapse of compassion. The term has also been defined in The Oxford Handbook of Compassion Science: ". . . people tend to feel and act less compassionately for multiple suffering victims than for a single suffering victim."

That the drop-off happens has been widely documented, but at what point this phenomenon happens remains unclear. One paper, written by Paul Slovic and Daniel Västfjäll, sets out a simple formula, ". . . where the emotion or affective feeling is greatest at N =1 but begins to fade at N = 2 and collapses at some higher value of N that becomes simply 'a statistic.'"

The ambiguity of "some higher value" is curious. That value may relate to Dunbar's Number, a theory developed by British anthropologist, Robin Dunbar. His research centers on communal groups of primates that evolved to support and care for larger and larger groups as their brains (our brains) expanded in capacity. Dunbar's is the number of people with whom we can maintain a stable relationship — approximately 150.

Some back story

Professor Robin Dunbar of the University of Oxford has published considerable research on anthropology and evolutionary psychology. His work is informed by anthropology, sociology and psychology. Dunbar's Number is a cognitive boundary, one we are likely incapable of breaching. The number is based around two notions; that brain size in primates correlates with the size of the social groups they live among and that these groups in human primates are relative to communal numbers set deep in our evolutionary past. In simpler terms, 150 is about the maximum number of people with whom we can identify with, interact with, care about, and work to protect. Dunbar's Number falls along a logorithmic continuum, beginning with the smallest, most emotionally connected group of five, then expanding outward in multiples of three: 5, 15, 50, 150. The numbers in these concentric circles are affected by multiple variables, including the closeness and size of immediate and extended families, along with the greater cognitive capacity of some individuals to maintain stable relationships with larger than normal group sizes. In other words, folks with more cerebral candlepower can engage with larger groups. Those with lesser cognitive powers, smaller groups.

The number that triggers "compassion collapse" might be different for individuals, but I think it may begin to unravel along the continuum of Dunbar's relatable 150. We can commiserate with 5 to 15 to 150 people because upon those numbers, we can overlay names and faces of people we know: our families, friends and coworkers, the members of our clan. In addition, from an evolutionary perspective, that number is important. We needed to care if bands of our clan were being harmed by raids, disaster, or disease, because our survival depended on the group staying intact. Our brains developed the capacity to care for the entirety of the group but not beyond it. Beyond our ingroup was an outgroup that may have competed with us for food and safety and it served us no practical purpose to feel sad that something awful had happened to them, only to learn the lessons so as to apply them for our own survival, e.g., don't swim with hippos.


Imagine losing 10 family members in a house fire. Now instead, lose 10 neighbors, 10 from a nearby town, 10 from Belgium, 10 from Vietnam 10 years ago. One could almost feel the emotion ebbing as the sentence drew to a close.

There are two other important factors which contribute to the softening of our compassion: proximity and time. While enjoying lunch in Santa Fe, we can discuss the death toll in the French revolution with no emotional response but might be nauseated to discuss three children lost in a recent car crash around the corner. Conflict journalists attempt to bridge these geotemporal lapses but have long struggled to ignite compassion in their home audience for far-flung tragedies, Being a witness to carnage is an immense stressor, but the impact diminishes across the airwaves as the kilometers pile up.

A Dunbar Correlation

Where is the inflection point at which people become statistics? Can we find that number? In what way might that inflection point be influenced by the Dunbar 150?

"Yes, the Dunbar number seems relevant here," said Gad Saad, PhD., the evolutionary behavioral scientist from the John Molson School of Business at Concordia University, Montreal, in an email correspondence. Saad also recommended Singer's work.

I also went to the wellspring. I asked Professor Dunbar by email if he thought 150 was a reasonable inflection point for moving from compassion into statistics. He graciously responded, lightly edited for space.

Professor Dunbar's response:

"The short answer is that I have no idea, but what you suggest is perfect sense. . . . One-hundred and fifty is the inflection point between the individuals we can empathize with because we have personal relationships with them and those with whom we don't have personalized relationships. There is, however, also another inflection point at 1,500 (the typical size of tribes in hunter-gatherer societies) which defines the limit set by the number of faces we can put names to. After 1,500, they are all completely anonymous."

I asked Dunbar if he knows of or suspects a neurophysiological aspect to the point where we simply lose the capacity to manage our compassion:

"These limits are underpinned by the size of key bits of the brain (mainly the frontal lobes, but not wholly). There are a number of studies showing this, both across primate species and within humans."

In his literature, Professor Dunbar presents two reasons why his number stands at 150, despite the ubiquity of social networking: the first is time — investing our time in a relationship is limited by the number of hours we have available to us in a given week. The second is our brain capacity measured in primates by our brain volume.

Friendship, kinship and limitations

"We devote around 40 percent of our available social time to our 5 most intimate friends and relations," Dunbar has written, "(the subset of individuals on whom we rely the most) and the remaining 60 percent in progressively decreasing amounts to the other 145."

These brain functions are costly, in terms of time, energy and emotion. Dunbar states, "There is extensive evidence, for example, to suggest that network size has significant effects on health and well-being, including morbidity and mortality, recovery from illness, cognitive function, and even willingness to adopt healthy lifestyles." This suggests that we devote so much energy to our own network that caring about a larger number may be too demanding.

"These differences in functionality may well reflect the role of mentalizing competencies. The optimal group size for a task may depend on the extent to which the group members have to be able to empathize with the beliefs and intentions of other members so as to coordinate closely…" This neocortical-to-community model carries over to compassion for others, whether in or out of our social network. Time constrains all human activity, including time to feel.

As Dunbar writes in The Anatomy of Friendship, "Friendship is the single most important factor influencing our health, well-being, and happiness. Creating and maintaining friendships is, however, extremely costly, in terms of both the time that has to be invested and the cognitive mechanisms that underpin them. Nonetheless, personal social networks exhibit many constancies, notably in their size and their hierarchical structuring." Our mental capacity may be the primary reason we feel less empathy and compassion for larger groups; we simply don't have the cerebral apparatus to manage their plights. "Part of friendship is the act of mentalizing, or mentally envisioning the landscape of another's mind. Cognitively, this process is extraordinarily taxing, and as such, intimate conversations seem to be capped at about four people before they break down and form smaller conversational groups. If the conversation involves speculating about an absent person's mental state (e.g., gossiping), then the cap is three — which is also a number that Shakespeare's plays respect."

We cannot mentalize what is going on in the minds of people in our groups much beyond our inner circle, so it stands to reason we cannot do it for large groups separated from us by geotemporal lapses.

Emotional regulation

In a paper, C. Daryl Cameron and Keith B. Payne state, "Some researchers have suggested that [compassion collapse] happens because emotions are not triggered by aggregates. We provide evidence for an alternative account. People expect the needs of large groups to be potentially overwhelming, and, as a result, they engage in emotion regulation to prevent themselves from experiencing overwhelming levels of emotion. Because groups are more likely than individuals to elicit emotion regulation, people feel less for groups than for individuals."

This argument seems to imply that we have more control over diminishing compassion than not. To say, "people expect the needs of large groups to be potentially overwhelming" suggests we consciously consider what that caring could entail and back away from it, or that we become aware that we are reaching and an endpoint of compassion and begin to purposely shift the framing of the incident from one that is personal to one that is statistical. The authors offer an alternative hypothesis to the notion that emotions are not triggered by aggregates, by attempting to show that we regulate our emotional response as the number of victims becomes perceived to be overwhelming. However, in the real world, for example, large death tolls are not brought to us one victim at a time. We are told, about a devastating event, then react viscerally.

If we don't begin to express our emotions consciously, then the process must be subconscious, and that number could have evolved to where it is now innate.

Gray matter matters

One of Dunbar's most salient points is that brain capacity influences social networks. In his paper, The Social Brain, he writes: "Path analysis suggests that there is a specific causal relationship in which the volume of a key prefrontal cortex subregion (or subregions) determines an individual's mentalizing skills, and these skills in turn determine the size of his or her social network."

It's not only the size of the brain but in fact, mentalizing recruits different regions for ingroup empathy. The Stanford Center for Compassion and Altruism Research and Education published a study of the brain regions activated when showing empathy for strangers in which the authors stated, "Interestingly, in brain imaging studies of mentalizing, participants recruit more dorsal portions of the medial prefrontal cortex (dMPFC; BA 8/9) when mentalizing about strangers, whereas they recruit more ventral regions of the medial prefrontal cortex (BA 10), similar to the MPFC activation reported in the current study, when mentalizing about close others with whom participants experience self-other overlap."⁷

It's possible the region of the brain that activates to help an ingroup member evolved for good reason, survival of the group. Other regions may have begun to expand as those smaller tribal groups expanded into larger societies.

Rabbit holes

There is an eclectic list of reasons why compassion may collapse, irrespective of sheer numbers:

(1) Manner: How the news is presented affects viewer framing. In her book, European Foreign Conflict Reporting: A Comparative Analysis of Public News, Emma Heywood explores how tragedies and war are offered to the viewers, which can elicit greater or lesser compassionate responses. "Techniques, which could raise compassion amongst the viewers, and which prevail on New at Ten, are disregarded, allowing the victims to remain unfamiliar and dissociated from the viewer. This approach does not encourage viewers to engage with the sufferers, rather releases them from any responsibility to participate emotionally. Instead compassion values are sidelined and potential opportunities to dwell on victim coverage are replaced by images of fighting and violence."

(2) Ethnicity. How relatable are the victims? Although it can be argued that people in western countries would feel a lesser degree of compassion for victims of a bombing in Karachi, that doesn't mean people in countries near Pakistan wouldn't feel compassion for the Karachi victims at a level comparable to what westerners might feel about a bombing in Toronto. Distance has a role to play in this dynamic as much as in the sound evolutionary data that demonstrate a need for us to both recognize and empathize with people who look like our communal entity. It's not racism; it's tribalism. We are simply not evolved from massive heterogeneous cultures. As evolving humans, we're still working it all out. It's a survival mechanism that developed over millennia that we now struggle with as we fine tune our trust for others.

In the end

Think of compassion collapse on a grid, with compassion represented in the Y axis and the number of victims running along the X. As the number of victims increases beyond one, our level of compassion is expected to rise. Setting aside other variables that may raise compassion (proximity, familiarity etc.), the level continues to rise until, for some reason, it begins to fall precipitously.

Is it because we've become aware of being overwhelmed or because we have reached max-capacity neuron load? Dunbar's Number seems a reasonable place to look for a tipping point.

Professor Dunbar has referred to the limits of friendship as a "budgeting problem." We simply don't have the time to manage a bigger group of friends. Our compassion for the plight of strangers may drop of at a number equivalent to the number of people with who we can be friends, a number to which we unconsciously relate. Whether or not we solve this intellectual question, it remains a curious fact that the larger a tragedy is, the more likely human faces are to become faceless numbers.