Truly,	Madly,	Deeply. Hans	Maes	asks	what	it	is	to	love	a	work	of	art Judging	works	of	art	is	one	thing.	Loving	a	work	of	art	is	something	else.	When you visit a museum like the Louvre you make hundreds of judgments in the space	of	just	a	couple	of	hours.	But	you	may	grow	to	love	only	a	handful	of	works over the course of your entire life. For me, these include Jane Austen's Persuasion, Nescio's novella Titaantjes (somewhat imperfectly translated as "Young Titans"), The Pixies' album Bossanova, and Richard Linklater's film trilogy	Before	Sunrise,	Before	Sunset,	Before	Midnight. These	are	all	works	I	love (or	have	loved)	truly,	madly,	and	deeply. Let	me	say	something	about	the	'madly'	part	first.	Most	of	us	know	what it's like to fall crazily in love	with someone. You feel the	proverbial butterflies when	you catch a glimpse	of your	beloved in the street; you think	about them constantly; you become interested in everything about them (where they live, what they	do for	work,	where they	were	born, etc.) and the	most	banal items, say, a napkin or a pen they used, suddenly acquire a special significance. Something	very	similar	happens	when	you fall in love	with	a	work	of	art.	Each time I see the	opening	sequence	of	Before	Sunrise, set	perfectly to the	music	of Purcell's	Dido	and	Aeneas, the	butterflies	are there.	And	I	catch	myself thinking about	certain	conversations	in	the	film	for	days	and	weeks	afterwards.	I	confess that I have visited Vienna and Paris just to retrace the footsteps of the main characters	(and	film	crew),	just	as	I	have	visited	most	of	the	locations	described in	Persuasion	as	well	as	the	house	in	which	Jane	Austen	is	said	to	have	written	it. And,	yes,	if	I	could	get	hold	of	a	pen	once	used	by	Austen	I	would	be	as	thrilled	as Sheldon	from	The	Big	Bang	Theory	receiving	a	napkin	signed	by	Spock/Leonard Nimoy. Naturally,	a	state	of infatuation	can	be	short-lived	and	superficial.	But it need	not	be.	You	can	grow	to	love	a	person,	truly	and	deeply,	and	this	often	is	a life-changing	experience	with	a lasting impact	on	how	you think	and	what	you value.	The same	with	art: falling in love	with	a	painting	or	a	novel	may	be the start	of	a	relation	that	lasts	for	decades	and	that	changes	the	very	fabric	of	your mental and emotional life. It should be clear that this is very different from merely judging	a	painting	or	novel to	be	successful.	You	can judge	a	novel	or	a painting	to	be	great	and	yet	have	no	love	for	it	(Proust's	In	Search	of	Lost	Time	is my	own	go-to	example	here).	Equally,	you	can	fall	in	love	with	a	work	and	at	the same	time	acknowledge	that	some	other	work	you	don't	happen	to	love	is	more successful	as	a	work	of	art.	For	instance,	I	have	no	difficulty	in	conceding	that	the Before films are not as accomplished as, say, Citizen	Kane or	Vertigo – films I admire	but	do	not	love. Curiously, in both the philosophy of art and the philosophy of love, the phenomenon of loving an art work has been largely ignored. There are a few exceptions	(the	topic	is	touched	upon	in	recent	essays	by	Jerrold	Levinson,	Sam Shpall, and in Alexander Nehamas's Only a Promise of Happiness). But the phenomenon	remains	severely	underexplored.	Before	we	investigate	why	that	is, it's important	to	draw	a	few	distinctions	–	because	the	word 'love'	gets	thrown around	a lot.	For instance, I love	Titaantjes,	but	I	also love	a	cold	beer	on	a	hot summer's	day.	There's	a	difference	between these two,	obviously. In the latter, what I	mean is simply that I like drinking chilled	beer	when it's	hot	outside.	A Stella	would	be	good,	but	a Jupiler,	Vedett,	Duvel	or	Seefbier	would	do the trick just	as	well.	When	I	profess	my	love	for	Titaantjes,	however,	I	refer	to	something much	more	exclusive	and	much	more	profound, something that	goes	beyond	a mere	liking. Loving	a	particular	work	of	art	is	also	different	from	loving	art	in	general. An	art	lover,	one	could	say,	is	someone	who	enjoys	engaging	with	art.	They	value art	in	general	and	make	art	appreciation	an	integral	part	of	her	life.	There	may	be a	few	works	that	the	art	lover	cherishes	especially,	but	then	again	there	may	not be.	Similarly,	people	who	love	particular	works	of	art	will	often	be	art	lovers,	but they	need	not	be.	Loving	a	work	of	art	should	furthermore	be	distinguished	from loving	a	fictional	character.	Not	only	because	one	can	come	to	love	artworks	that are	not	fictional	and	don't	have	characters	(just	think	of	music),	but	also	because one	can love	a fictional	character	–	assuming	that this	really	qualifies	as love	– without loving the	work that brought the character into being. (The immense popularity	of	Pride	and	Prejudice	in	the	1990s	was	in	large	part	due	to	the	massinfatuation	with	Mr	Darcy	as	played	by	Colin	Firth	in	the	BBC	series,	rather	than to	a	genuine	appreciation	of	the	book	as	a	work	of literature.)	Finally,	to love	a particular	work	of	art	is	not	the	same	thing	as	loving	an	artist.	Of	course,	love	for a painting or a film	might lead to a fascination for the artist who created the work.	But	one	should	not	be	confused	with	the	other.	I	love	the	Before	trilogy,	but I	don't	love	Richard	Linklater. So	why	has	the	phenomenon	that	we're	interested	in	been	overlooked	in the	relevant literature?	I think	this is in large	part	because	of	certain	prevalent (pre)conceptions about love. For instance, if you believe that love must be mutual in order to really qualify as love, then paintings or novels are immediately	disqualified	as	love-objects.	A	painting	or	a	novel	will	not	love	you back. Similarly, there can be no love for a	work of art, if you hold Kyla EbelsDuggan's	'shared-ends	view'	according	to	which	love	directs	us	to	share	in	each other's ends. For	what would it	mean for	me to adopt	Bossanova's ends? The album	doesn't	have	ends	or	goals	like	we	have.	Alternatively,	if	one	thinks	of	love as a response to the particularly human capacity for valuation, as David Velleman	does,	then	only	a	person	can	be	the	proper	object	of	love,	not	a	work	of art	(or	any	other	object	for	that	matter). Unsurprisingly, each of these conceptions has met with sustained criticism	and	anyone	who	thinks there	can	be	unrequited love, that	people	can love	their	country,	or	that	one	can	love	a	pet,	should	be	inclined	to	reject	them. The	fact	that	views	like	this	cannot	account	for	the	love	of	particular	art	works	I consider	to	be	just	one	more	nail	in	their	coffin. But if this isn't the	right	way	to	think	about love,	what is?	While I	won't attempt to formulate a full-blown theory here, I do want to put forward the following substantial claim: love always involves a complex of emotions and dispositions held together by a deep concern for the beloved and an intrinsic desire for interaction with the beloved. Not only does this conception of love allow for unrequited love as well as a wide range of love-objects, such as countries, animals, football teams, and	works of art (making it	more plausible from a phenomenological point of view). It also acknowledges love's forwardlooking,	open-ended	character	and	helps	to	highlight	some	of	the	most	important differences	between	loving	a	work	of	art	and	making	aesthetic	judgements	about works	of	art.	To	begin	with, the judgement	that	a	painting	is	skillfully	executed does not necessarily presume an emotional involvement with the object – something that is characteristic of love. Secondly, such a judgement does not necessarily	entail	any	deep	concern	for	the	work.	There	are	probably	tonnes	of works that we have judged favourably in our lifetime and that we have now forgotten	all	about. Thirdly,	even	a	very	positive	aesthetic judgement	does	not necessarily come with a desire to further interact with the object. You can acknowledge that a vase is beautiful and yet have no inclination to buy it or spend	any	more	time looking	at it. (Here	I take issue	with	Alexander	Nehamas, one	of	the	few	contemporary	philosophers	who	has	tried	to	connect	love	and	art, but who does not seem to make a distinction between judging a work of art beautiful and loving it. For him, judging a vase or a painting to be beautiful is identical with the spark of desire, the wish to engage	more with the object. I believe	this is	much	more	typical	of love	and	that, in fact,	most judgements	are not	forward	looking,	but	–	like	verdicts	–	backward	looking.) Moreover, when we make an aesthetic judgement about a work of art there is, at least according to many philosophers, a rational expectation that others	will	(on	the	whole)	agree	with	us.	Famously, Immanuel	Kant	held	that	a judgment	of	beauty	demands	agreement	–	a	claim	which	has	been	interpreted	by some as an ideal prediction: someone	who judges an object to be beautiful is claiming	that	under	ideal	circumstances	everyone	will	share	her	pleasure.	When we	love	a	work	of	art,	by	contrast,	there	is	no	rational	expectation	that	others	will share	our	love,	just	like	there	is	no	such	expectation	when	we	love	a	person.	Does this	mean	that	love	is	a-rational?	Does	it	follow	that	our	love	for	a	work	of	art	is not	based	on	any	reasons?	Well,	no.	As	a	rationalist	about	love	in	general	–	here	I take	my	cue	from	Katrien	Schaubroeck's	essay	'Loving	the	Lovable'	–	I	also	think that	the	love	for	a	work	of	art	will	typically	be	based	on	(and	hence	justified	by) reasons.	After all,	when	given the	opportunity,	people can talk	endlessly about the	works	they	love	and	will	often	try	to	make	their	deep	involvement	intelligible by citing reasons. Conversely, if someone could not mention a single positive reason for	why	she loves	a film,	but just shrugs	her	shoulders	when	asked,	we might	rightly	doubt	whether	she	truly	loves	it.	That	is	not	to	say,	of	course,	that when	people	are	in	love	they	always	act	reasonably.	Love	gives	rise	to	all	sorts	of unreasonable	behavior.	But	that	doesn't	mean	that	the	love	itself	is	not	grounded in	reasons. But, the anti-rationalist might object, if you are justified in loving The Pixies'	Bossanova, if	your	reasons for loving	the	album	really	are	good	reasons, then	aren't	these	reasons	also	going	to	hold	for	everyone	else?	So,	if	it	is	indeed reasonable for you to love	Bossanova, then isn't everyone rationally obliged to love the album? This objection only makes sense if you assume that reasons must be deontic (that is, demanding a particular action unless there is a countervailing justification) and agent-neutral (what is a reason for X will automatically	also	be	a	reason	for	Y).	But	why	assume	that?	Some	reasons	clearly are non-deontic. These are reasons that invite rather than require, that justify without 'unjustifying' doing something else. Such reasons, as Jonathan Dancy argues, are not 'in the wrong-making business'. For example, Anne may have good	reasons	to	get	angry	at	Elizabeth	but	if	her	good	nature	prevents	her	from becoming	angry, then	surely	she's	not in the	wrong.	Furthermore, there	can	be agent-relative reasons, when the reason-giving fact, or the formulation of the reason-giving consideration, include a reference to the particular agent the reason applies to. For example, Paul may love Phil because Phil helped him through a difficult time and seems to understand him like no one else, and because Phil's voice and demeanor has a calming effect on Paul. These are legitimate	reasons for	Paul to love	Phil,	but they	are	clearly	agent-relative.	The fact that	Phil	has this effect	on	Paul is	not a reason for Jonathan	or	Michael to love	Phil. Reasons for loving	a	particular	work	of	art	are	very	often	agent-relative and	almost	always	non-deontic.	When I read	Titaantjes for the first time I	was about	the	same	age	as	the	main	characters	and	struggling	with	the	same	issues	as they are. The novella really spoke to me and gave me the feeling of being understood. It made me see, for instance, how the abandonment of youthful ambitions	is	part	and	parcel	of	growing	up	and	it	did	this	in	a	way	that	filled	me (and still fills	me)	with a benign and comforting sense of	melancholy. These, I think,	are	good	reasons	for	me	to	love	Titaantjes,	but	obviously,	someone	else	is not	required	to	love	the	novella	simply	because	it	makes	me	feel	this	way.	These reasons are also non-deontic in that they help to justify	my love for the book without	making	it	a	requirement.	If	I	come	across	another	story	that	fills	me	with a	benign	and	comforting	melancholy	but	I	do	not	grow	to	love	it	in	the	same	way as	I love	Titaantjes, that's	absolutely	fine.	There	is	nothing	irrational	about	that (just as there is nothing irrational about not getting angry even if you have reason	to). It's	precisely	such	agent-relative	and	non-deontic	reasons	– 'because	the poem	helped	me through a difficult time', 'because I feel inspired every time I hear	this	song', 'because	I	am	encouraged	and	reassured	when	I	see	this	film'	– that help to explain and make intelligible the deep concern, the emotional attachment, the	desire	for interaction	– in	short: the love	that	we	feel for	those works	of	art	that	come	to	occupy	a	special	place	in	one's	life.