In his introduction to Permanent Red, first published in 1960, John Berger offers an approach to art criticism that begins with a simple question: “What can art serve here and now?” Berger was a fervent Marxist, and his style of criticism reflected the social and political concerns that dominated his work. He believed, among other things, that the 20th century was “pre-eminently the century of men throughout the world claiming their right to equality.” When he looked at a work of art he asked if it helped or encouraged people to know and claim their social rights. He didn’t mean this literally—such an approach, he said, would result in a sort of propaganda. Instead, he thought a work of art could allow a viewer to understand the world differently—to retain and remember an artist’s way of seeing the world. This, he said, helped a viewer to understand that they were in relationship to the world—something Berger believed held the promise of action. Through this lens, art is a means of unlocking a person’s potentiality—the possibility of being awakened to one’s relationship to the world and then, with eyes open, participating in it. I’ve had Berger’s question on my mind lately: What can art serve here and now? The answer depends on the conditions of the here and now, which, of course, are myriad: climate change, extreme inequality, a loneliness epidemic, mental health issues, wars, extremist and authoritarian politics, and distrust of institutions. But from this heap, a theme emerges—something the writer and filmmaker Astra Taylor refers to as insecurity.