The rising and extensive use of digital platforms and social media in the presentation and promotion of art by artists and galleries alike is changing the way art is perceived and experienced. While museums and gallery shows were once the go-to places for art lovers, art connoisseurs, art professionals, and collectors, the physical experience of visiting these spaces is increasingly giving way to—and on certain occasions, even being substituted by—the virtual experience of art viewed through the confines of a screen.

It is undeniable that presenting and selling art through social media and online platforms has revolutionized the art world. Art has become accessible to a broader audience, enabling artists who are not represented by a gallery or who do not have institutional support to gain greater visibility and promote themselves without heavily relying on a middleman.

Art enthusiasts can now see a multitude of images from shows taking place on the other side of the world—images that, in such volume and immediacy, would otherwise be out of reach. Collectors can examine and purchase artworks simply by logging into one of the many online auctions and galleries now available, without needing to travel to a specific location. At the same time, there’s a greater possibility for engagement from individuals who might not otherwise take the initiative to attend art shows.

Nonetheless, the heavy reliance on social media for showcasing art and driving traffic, the exponential rise of digital exhibitions, and the growing dependence on online platforms for selling art raise several concerns regarding artists’ actual creative freedom, curatorial integrity and engagement, and the overall experience of the viewer.

When I log into my social media, I often feel as though I am entering an episode of “The Twilight Zone,” waiting for Rod Serling’s voice to begin: “You’re traveling through another dimension—a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination.”

The floodgates open and unleash selfies of heavily made-up women trying to pose naturally (but to no avail), artfully plated eggs Benedict with a side of smoked salmon, videos of cats doing bizarre things, breaking news from Gaza and Iran, memes about Trump’s astronomically insane statements (whatever he happens to be going on about at the time), and the occasional inspirational quote. And somewhere amid scrolling, images of exhibitions, paintings, and behind-the-scenes videos of artworks in the making begin to surface.

More and more artists of all ages are turning to social media platforms to share their work, generate interest from buyers and galleries, connect with a wider audience, and access new opportunities. Beautifully and thoughtfully curated accounts become spaces where creators can showcase new works and works in progress, share their conceptual frameworks, discuss their overall practice, and promote their current and upcoming shows. But while the digital realm carries the flag of democratized access, it comes with limitations and constraints that often remain invisible until they are suddenly enforced.

Even though algorithmic systems have become the de facto curators of digital culture, they lack cultural sensitivity and contextual awareness, resulting in the privileging of the shareable and the visually safe. Platforms like Instagram and Facebook have automated systems that detect and remove content deemed to violate community guidelines, typically concerning nudity, sexual activity, violence, or “politically sensitive” subjects. Works that are eye-catching, colorful, abstract, and visually pleasing tend to enjoy far greater visibility than those that are critical, political, figurative, or confrontational.

The one-size-fits-all approach of algorithmic censorship may flag or delete content despite its artistic or social merit, based on the perceived violation of specific community standards. An image of a classical painting of a reclining nude, a video that incites sexual violence, and an artwork promoting trans rights may all be considered ban-worthy under the same inflexible set of rules.

In some situations, algorithmic censorship can lead to something even more perplexing: shadow banning. This involves content being quietly down-ranked or hidden without the account holder’s knowledge and without any clear explanation. It’s no surprise, really, when one considers that tech company policies are shaped by Western-centric standards of decency and often fail to account for regional, cultural, and artistic variation. What is allowed is shaped less by cultural diversity and creative freedom and more by the ease of visual consumption and the pursuit of advertising revenue.

With social media in mind and the need to fascinate and quickly capture the audience’s attention, a considerable number of exhibitions tend to be conceived with an unfortunate prioritization of the wow factor over substance. What is Instagrammable has, to a great extent, become indistinguishable from what the exhibition actually communicates or explores. This shift stems not only from the curatorial and institutional drive to attract audiences but also from the expectations and viewing habits of visitors themselves: a classic chicken-and-egg situation.

An example is Yayoi Kusama’s Infinity Rooms, which have become her most widely recognized works. These immersive art installations use mirrors, chandeliers, lights, and repeating visual patterns to create the illusion of endless space. And although they are deeply representative of Kusama’s broader practice—which explores themes of mental health and trauma, beauty and perception, and self-obliteration—the Infinity Rooms have also been widely criticized.

The way institutions market and present these works often reduces them to little more than superficially fun, immersive experiences that feed into the ever-growing selfie culture. I am not a huge fan of Kusama myself, as I struggle to feel any strong connection with her work. However, in this case, I don’t believe the artist is to blame for the fast-paced, surface-level nature of these exhibits, but rather the institutions that choose to present them that way.

Tickets for the Infinity Rooms often sell out online within an hour of release. Long queues form outside exhibition spaces, with visitors eagerly holding their phones in anticipation—as if attending a Taylor Swift concert—only to be allowed inside for a mere 20 to 60 seconds, just long enough to take the obligatory selfie. The entire experience becomes a frenzy of fast consumption, reducing the installations to spectacle: something to be seen, not truly engaged with; a source of hype, not something to be thoughtfully or meaningfully understood. Ultimately, the works are photographed and shared for the sole purpose of seeing and being seen.

This experience varies, of course, depending on the curatorial approach of the institution presenting them. For example, Tate Modern in London and the Hirshhorn Museum in Washington, D.C., adopted a more tactful and respectful strategy, framing the installations within a thoughtful curatorial context that connects the Infinity Rooms to Kusama’s broader body of work. However, in other settings, such as the David Zwirner show in Chelsea, the absence of thoughtful curatorial framing reduced the work to a spectacle: visually powerful, yes, but stripped of the deeper meaning it was meant to carry.

Ultimately, the growing reliance on digital platforms and social media seems to take away some of the magic of thoughtfully and meaningfully engaging with a work of art. The rise of digital exhibitions and the increasing use of online platforms to sell art may offer convenience, but they also risk diminishing the kind of immersive experience that can only happen when we share physical space with the artwork itself.

More and more, we experience art through a screen from the comfort of our sofa—missing the true colors, textures, dimensionality, and emotional presence of the work—or we find ourselves at a physical exhibition, still engaging with the art through the lens of a phone. Often, the impulse to take a photo or video overrides the act of really looking, of spending more than a few seconds with what is in front of us.

A common approach in museum visitor research uses animal metaphors to describe different exhibition behaviors. This taxonomy helps illustrate how visitor expectations and habits can influence exhibition design. Among the most common are the ants, methodical and detail-oriented visitors; the fish, who linger in the center of rooms, scanning broadly rather than focusing on individual works; the butterflies, who flutter from one piece to another, guided more by visual attraction than intention; and the grasshoppers, who are selective and purposeful, stopping only at what captures their interest and skipping the rest.

I have been noticing an increasing number of butterflies as time goes by—not the elegant ones you find in nature, nor the ones that appear after bumping your head, but the kind that seem surgically attached to their phones. If audiences continue to increasingly behave like butterflies, a great number of curators will naturally design exhibition spaces to cater to that style. So where does that leave the future of exhibitions and the experience of art itself? I wonder what ChatGPT has to say.