I WAS recently privileged enough to make a return visit to Vienna. Nearly half a century had passed since I was last there, one of the highlights of that trip being a visit to the largest collection of works by Klimt in Schloss Belvedere, including his most iconic work The Kiss.

I am no connoisseur, but ‘I know what I like…’. Like many, I was familiar with the works of Klimt, but seeing them for real took my breath away; I remember being stunned by their opulence, the richness of the colours, their scale and sensuality, the flecks of pure gold that were so distinctive that gave a heightened sense of indulgence and passion.

Fifty years on – and the paintings didn’t fail to impress – but the experience of seeing them certainly did. We were admitted to that section of the gallery in small batches to avoid overcrowding; most visitors viewing the preceding works perfunctorily before pressing speedily on to the room housing the master work. (A pity, really because the other rooms set the Kiss in the fuller context of his contemporaries and earlier works). A small crowd gathered about two metres in front of the painting; cameras and selfie sticks to the ready in order to capture a photo of the work with them in the frame. Every so often a couple would hand their camera to a stranger, who would interrupt his own photoshoot to take a photo of the two people standing awkwardly so that Klimt’s masterpiece could provide a backdrop to their smiles.

The hushed awe, which at one time was the attitude commonly adopted in the presence of a great art had been replaced by the cacophony of digital ‘clicks’. Having obtained their photo, most visitors swiftly moved on to find the next work that their smartphone guide brought to their attention.

I, alone, wandered slowly towards the painting, the better to look at the how it was constructed, how the gold leaf was worked into the paint, how the effect that looked so stunning at at distance, was painstakingly crafted and created.

My son soon tugged at my shoulder. “They’re getting annoyed. You’re in the way of their photos…” Sure enough, the crowd was turning angry. They hadn’t come all this way to take a shot of the back of my head… I judged that I had another five minutes before I created an international incident and to my son’s complete embarrassment and disgust, continued my scrutiny. As I returned to the crowd; the tuts and snorts of disapproval drowned the click of the shutters.

The experience of seeing art has been replaced by the experience of photographing it. Instead of allowing it to confront and challenge us, as surely the artist intended, we have learned to cut it down to size, to contain, control it and thereby destroy it. An achievement of which we should be ashamed.