Perhaps the main pleasure of covering the New England art scene has been the community behind it. As a Bostonian, the ability to hop on the Green Line or Red Line or bus, show up at a perspective gallery or museum, and be totally immersed in the world of one or many artists whose works hang or sit, is a reward I’ve cherished since arriving in the city nearly a decade ago. The archipelago of culture that dots the Metro-Boston landscape — from a painter’s Somerville studio turned black box theater to an ever-imposing institution like the Museum of Fine Arts — has always been, for me, one of the city’s proudest treasures.
But, for now, the atmosphere has changed. And covering the art scene as a journalist has changed along with it. Beyond losing the ritual and the communal gathering of openings and face-to-face interactions, I now find myself covering not“actual”pieces of art, but rather photographic reproductions of said art. Happenings have moved online, as gallery doors remain locked.