The Question of Value: Who Decides What’s Worth Saving?

Close up partial of untitled painting by unknown artist, Private Owner, Image taken by Rhiannon Piper.

There’s a certain irony to the way value is often discussed in the world of art. It’s almost always tied to price tags, auctions, headlines. When a long-lost painting is "rediscovered" and sold for millions, its value becomes unquestionable — as though its worth only existed once the number was attached. But for conservators, the job is never just about that number.

In the studio, under the angled glow of a lightbox or beneath the microscope, the brushstrokes of an unknown hand command the same focus as those of a celebrated master. They must. Because the moment we let perceived value shape our attention, we step away from the fundamental responsibility of our role: to preserve, to understand, and to respect the object as it stands — regardless of its provenance, market worth, or fame.

When I first started my studies in painting conservation, I often found myself thinking about the artist — wondering what they would make of the state their work was in now. This canvas, now dulled and brittle, was once someone's pride and joy. It had once been carefully made, laboured over, stepped back from, returned to. Perhaps even signed with a sense of quiet satisfaction. That thought stayed with me — the idea that no matter how forgotten or damaged a painting might seem, it was never made to end up that way. A painting might not carry a six-figure insurance policy, but it might be the only surviving image of a loved one. It might have sat over a family’s mantelpiece for generations, quietly holding memories and presence. That kind of value doesn’t make the news, but it matters just as much — sometimes more. It meant something to someone once, and that’s enough to approach it with care.

There’s also the question of historical value, which rarely aligns with market value. Some paintings are vessels of context: they bear witness to a specific time, technique, or cultural shift. Even if their creators never reached widespread recognition, the materials, the ground, the paint layers — all of it — carry information. It’s knowledge embedded in matter. To overlook a painting because it doesn’t command attention in an auction house is to potentially miss an opportunity to learn.

And on a more human level, each painting is the product of someone’s labour, intention, and time. Whether it hangs in a national gallery or a private hallway, it deserves a careful eye. This doesn’t mean every painting will need complex intervention — many don’t. But it does mean that every one of them should be looked at properly.

Conservation is often described as problem-solving, but it’s also about listening. Listening to what the object is showing you, regardless of where it came from or what it’s "worth." This kind of work requires patience, humility, and a steady resistance against the pull of prestige.

In truth, we can’t always separate ourselves from the systems that assign monetary value. They influence how collections are built, how priorities are set. But within the studio, there is a space — however temporary — where the painting simply exists as it is. Where it asks to be understood, not priced.

That space is where conservation finds its purpose. Not in preserving what’s most valuable — but in preserving what’s most vulnerable.