Is it still deception if we ask to be fooled?

In a world increasingly defined by transparency and authenticity, it seems counterintuitive that we still flock to illusions. From the hyper-staged photos of social media to immersive art installations, we don’t just tolerate being tricked—we welcome it. But this paradox is not new. The Baroque era, with all its swirling excess, golden embellishments, and masterful trompe-l’oeil, thrived on visual deception. The question, then, is not whether Baroque art deceived its audience—but whether its audience wanted to be deceived. And if so, can we still call it deception?

Baroque art was never subtle about its intentions. It was a style born of drama and grandeur, designed to awe, seduce, and even manipulate. It bent light, played with scale, and framed its subjects with a theatrical flourish. Churches became stage sets for divine epiphanies; ceilings opened to heavens painted with impossible depth; sculptures twisted with exaggerated emotion. This wasn’t truth—it was heightened reality. And yet, the crowds were not repelled. They were captivated. Moved. Converted.

This complicity is key. Baroque art didn’t just deceive—it performed. And its audience played along. Much like in theatre, we suspend disbelief, not out of naivety but desire. We want the illusion because it reveals something emotional, something affective, that pure truth might not. The painting knows it's a trick. You know it's a trick. And still, something inside you leans forward. You don’t feel lied to—you feel seen.

Fast forward to today, and the dynamics haven’t changed much. Our digital world is full of curated realities. Filters, avatars, cinematic storytelling, AI-generated beauty—all crafted illusions that we consume daily. We know they aren’t real. We engage with them anyway. Is that deception, or a form of emotional choreography we’ve collectively agreed to? Like Baroque viewers under a frescoed dome, we aren’t being fooled against our will. We are co-conspirators in the illusion.

But maybe the question isn’t whether we’re being fooled—it’s why we want to be. Illusion offers shelter. It allows complexity to be shaped into beauty, chaos into composition. Deception, in the artistic sense, becomes not a lie, but a lens. A filter for the soul.

So: is it still deception if we ask to be fooled? Perhaps not. Perhaps it's something else entirely—a pact. An aesthetic agreement between creator and viewer: I will build the illusion, and you will meet me halfway. Not to obscure the truth, but to feel it more deeply.

In that sense, Baroque art may not be a relic of past excess, but a blueprint for modern spectatorship. It reminds us that not all truths are told plainly—and not all lies are meant to mislead. Sometimes, the most honest thing we can do is to embrace the beautiful fiction.