What Does a More Consumable Form of Art Mean?
What Does a More Consumable Form of Art Mean?
During a recent visit to MoMA with a friend who isn’t particularly interested in art, I experienced what felt like the most rushed museum visit I’ve ever had. With so many works to explore, lingering became a challenge; we found ourselves giving most pieces only fleeting glances of 3 to 5 seconds. While my friend appreciated the aesthetics of the art, she found little motivation to pause in front of any piece. However, one particular video installation captured our full attention, prompting me to reflect on why it resonated with us more than the others.
Clustered in the collection gallery on the second floor, visitors flow in and out, leaving little space to breathe. Yet, it is within this tight space that one seating area has almost always been occupied since we entered the gallery—Andrew Norman Wilson’s Workers Leaving the Googleplex. This two-channel video is projected onto a plain, self-standing white wall. Narrated by Wilson, an artist and filmmaker based between Europe and America, the video reveals the disparities among different classes of Google employees, particularly the yellow-badge workers who lack the corporate benefits and social interactions enjoyed by their more privileged colleagues. Wilson’s investigation into these inequalities, which ultimately led to his firing, underscores the often invisible struggles of these workers.
So, why did this work capture both my attention and that of my non-art friend? Or, more critically, what makes it so consumable? I believe the artwork’s appeal stems from its non-art characteristics. While it fits the definition of a video essay—“short critical essays on a given film or filmmaker, typically read in voice-over and supplemented with carefully chosen film clips”—Wilson’s approach deviates from the conventional format found on those popularized on public-sharing platforms.
Andrew Norman Wilson, Workers Leaving the Googleplex, 2011. Installation view, Museum of Modern Art, New York, NY. Photo: Rosaline Dou.
Workers Leaving the Googleplex employs a straightforward structure that combines voice and visuals to convey its message effectively. A clear voice-over guides the audience through the investigation—from contextualization (Wilson’s hire and discovery of yellow-badge workers) to the incident (filming and being investigated by Google) and the outcome (Wilson’s firing). This simplicity in narration ensures that viewers can easily follow the unfolding events.
The visuals provide a tangible illustration of the narration, depicting the different working styles of employees based on their badge colors: green for interns, white for full-time employees, and red for contractors. The video uses a split-screen format: on the right, a montage of the parking lot where yellow-badge workers leave their “factory,” and on the left, scenes of Google employees entering and exiting various buildings. Throughout the 11-minute video, yellow-badge workers exit almost simultaneously, their movements resembling a mechanical routine. Most leave alone, seemingly detached from their surroundings, engrossed in their next task of heading home. In contrast, the left side shows other Google employees walking casually, often in pairs, chatting and sipping coffee until Google limousine shuttle buses arrive.
Differentiated from the definition of video essay where film clips “supplement[ed]” narration, Wilson’s work integrates visual and audio elements seamlessly. Both components convey essential information without overwhelming viewers. The pairing of image and audio self-evidently illustrates Wilson’s discussion about the stratification of labor. As he states, moving images “not only represent movement but can also grasp concepts.” This dual engagement of sight and sound enables viewers to digest the storytelling more effectively and compare the two parallel videos, creating a manageable viewing experience.
Unlike typical video essays, Wilson does not present himself visually; the audience perceives him only as a voice narrating the video while also embodying the subject of the investigation. The absence of a visible narrator may distance the audience, but it ultimately enhances focus on the content. Without distractions, I realized I could absorb the information without needing Wilson’s facial expressions to interpret his story. His presence is conveyed through the camera, witnessing and documenting the movement of Google employees.
Wilson’s narration is presented plainly, avoiding excessive emotional expression and adjectives. The use of passive voice lends a scientific tone to the narrative, resembling the third-person perspective commonly found in scientific reports, as seen in phrases like “was sold to,” “are not given,” and “is identifiable by.” Despite this objective style, Wilson does not hesitate to use the pronoun “I,” narrating his own story while maintaining a sense of distance.
At the same time, establishing credibility and description makes the content interesting. Wilson’s transparency constructs the credibility of his account; for instance, he reads aloud the letter he sent to Google security clarifying the filming intentions and describes a moment when he was unable to locate a specific videotape. Wilson’s descriptions remain specific and vivid; for example, he describes an interaction with “a very agitated chubby white male with a red badge,” which effectively conveys not only the man’s appearance but also his emotional state and social status. By adapting the video essay format to his unique style, Wilson selectively curates the elements and information he includes. This deliberate choice not only enhances the overall compelling nature of the work but also engages the audience deeply with the content without distraction, maintaining their interest throughout.
Reflecting on video essays as a genre, I wondered what makes them so captivating. In the article “The Video Essay Boom,” reporter Nguyen argues that video essays are appealing because they are “entertaining, but simultaneously informational, thoughtful, and analytical.” Wilson’s piece embodies this, presenting a digestible format that doesn’t compromise its seriousness. Unlike criticisms of video essays for misinformation or lack of argument, Wilson’s use of field studies conducted on-site at Google provides solid foundational support.
The form of a video essay serves as a vehicle to illuminate social issues, but how effectively does it engage audiences or address these issues? While video essays may be more consumable, does that make Wilson’s work inherently more meaningful? The digestibility of a video essay can lead audiences to adopt a passive viewing stance. We are drawn to narratives, which, while compelling, can also mislead. Stories are often stickier than mere data, framing a singular perspective. As an audience member, I find myself agreeing or disagreeing to validate what is presented, but to what extent does this prompt deeper thinking? Nguyen suggests that the appeal of video essays lies in the illusion of viewers’ “smart[ness],” while remaining “passive viewers.” This passivity can lead to a misguided direction, as the intention behind Wilson’s work, and video essays in general, is to expose audiences to new information that encourages realization.
The danger of increasing consumability is that it may reduce us to mere recipients of information rather than active participants in the discourse. This phenomenon diminishes the lingering impact of the artwork; the more digestible it is, the easier it is to forget. Wilson himself expresses concern over the “dishonesty” of such works, noting that they often reach only a niche of “highly educated viewers” who already align with his perspective, rather than a broader public. Although Workers Leaving the Googleplex is available on public-sharing platforms, it has garnered only 28K views in 13 years. It’s somewhat ironic that, despite the multiple ways one could encounter this video, I watched it from beginning to end in the least accessible setting: a paid-entrance museum.
In discussing this experience with my non-art friend after we visited MoMA, she reflected on why she was willing to engage with Wilson’s work while feeling less inclined to spend time with other, more traditional artworks. She remarked that when she perceives something as “art,” her instinct is to think, “I couldn’t understand it.”
This visit left me grappling with a paradox: while more challenging artworks may demand deeper engagement, we often choose to bypass them. We are protective of our time and energy, evaluating the immediate value an artwork may offer to determine how much time to invest based on perceived understanding. Conversely, when a piece is more consumable, we risk becoming passive consumers, merely absorbing information without critical engagement. Ultimately, we seem reluctant to let any artwork truly linger in our minds.
I sat in front of the video installation, watching visitors flux in and out of the space, just as the yellow-badged workers fluxed in and out of the parking lot. It felt as if we were merely clocking in and out, driven from one task to the next—not truly thinking, just receiving instructions and acting on them—deceiving ourselves into believing we were making progress.
1. Tian Leng. “Video on Film: Video Essay, Videographic Criticism, and Digital Academic Publishing,” CUNY Academic Works, 2021. https://academicworks.cuny.edu/gc_etds/4155.
2. “Andrew Norman Wilson’s Workers Leaving the Googleplex,” The Museum of Modern Art, 2022. https://www.moma.org/magazine/articles/770.
3. Andrew Norman Wilson, “Workers Leaving the Googleplex,” YouTube, 2011, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0RTgOuoi2k.
4. Wilson, 2011.
5. Terry Nguyen, “The Video Essay Boom,” Vox, March 9, 2022, https://www.vox.com/the-goods/22967496/youtube-tiktok-creators.
6. Stephen Dubner and Angela Duckworth, “Why Are Stories Stickier than Statistics?,” No Stupid Questions, July 1, 2022, https://freakonomics.com/podcast/why-are-stories-stickier-than-statistics-nsq-ep-10/.
7. Nguyen, 2022.
8. “Andrew Norman Wilson’s Workers Leaving the Googleplex,” 2022.
9. Wilson, 2011.
