Corruption by QR Code

-Nokukhanya Sibanda

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Of all the criticisms I have of FNB art fair, the one that has me in disbelief —clenched jaw, rapid heart rate, seething — is the devil in the curatorial details. What we all noticed (and brushed off) as a new modern approach is blatant disrespect for the artwork, the artist, the audience, and the art form of curatorship. The common curatorial approach of replacing artwork with Quick Response (QR) codes, as employed by galleries at the fair, should be viewed as extremely controversial. 

Fixating on this point feels like pointing out cockroaches in a dumpster fire. Especially after the discourses that have arisen since De Oliveira’s Death of A Salesman went live again. The bigger picture conversations, leaving the group chats and entering public talk, are insightful. The macro-criticisms are important.

I would like to add a detail to the bigger picture: those goddamn QR codes. 

The fair has already been cast as a spectacle of collapse: moneyed myths unravelling, dealers scrambling, the fire already raging. But even inside that inferno, the cockroaches matter.

There is a quiet shift in how we are made to look: the slow replacement of labels - context - with the pixelated shorthand of a quick reaction code. Instead of reading artwork labels, we were asked to use our cellphones to scan a black-and-white square barcode in the corner of the gallery’s section. The scanned barcode would send you to a link to the gallery’s FNB catalogue. 

These black-and-white square barcodes alter where we place attention while engaging with art. Instead 

it reshapes how audiences engage with art, stripping context, reducing attention from the real-life artwork and redirecting it to tiny screens. And it seems that the only spaces that are surviving this attention apocalypse are the publishing arts. 

Note: I contacted a few curators involved with or present at the FNB Art Fair, with some indicating they would provide statements or follow-ups between 8 and 9 September. By the evening of 9 September, these were either retracted, unacknowledged, or remain pending. At present, the only official response I have received is from Pulp Paperworks. Alongside these limited responses, I offer my personal observations and first-hand experiences at the fair, which provide further valid insight.

Windsor Gallery Account

My friends and I walked into the Windsor Gallery’s section to find people touching an artwork, champagne flute in one sticky hand, and a tilting artwork getting petted in the other. The representative of the gallery seemed to be preoccupied and unconcerned, so we went to see if there were any signs near the artwork to indicate whether you can touch it or not…. There was no sign. No labelling, nothing. Just a QR code in the bottom corner of the entrance. 

Note: I still don’t know the name of the artwork. I lost the link to the gallery. When I circled back, looking for that specific artwork, I had run out of data. I couldn’t scan the precious QR code. Reverse image searches were not useful; however, after a lengthy search, I was able to find the artist’s name, Musa Ganiyy. 

I asked the representative, who claimed she was assisted in curation and installation, about the lack of labelling. They scoffed that it was: “Because we’re in a digital era.” Pressed further, they added that people prefer it this way anyway. 

I took it personally — as though my attention and literacy were dismissed in favour of digital convenience, and I wasn't even given the choice. If I were to give the argument that the digitisation of the artwork label is preferred. Why not have a QR code next to each artwork with a specific link to the artwork’s information? It takes more effort to scan a code in the corner of a gallery than it does to read a label on the wall next to it. Consider the fact that it would take more effort to scan a QR code next to an artwork, wait for the link to load, and scroll through to the artwork.

Your attention is now on your phone, not the artwork, scrolling like a dog being told to dig for context. Additionally, there is the obvious oversight and barrier of accessibility. Not everyone has data, and not everyone has a mobile device with a working camera. The QR code is not for audience convenience or preference because it is not convenient, and I certainly don’t prefer it.

  Gallery Momo

Over at Gallery Momo, the setup was similar to Windsor — no labels, a corner QR code, and a pile of business cards on the table. 

When I asked the representative/ curatorial assistant at Gallery Momo why there were no artwork labels, they claimed, “Honestly, we just didn't have enough time”. Their delivery was a bit more polite, but still, the same QR code was right there waiting for me in the corner, and I could scroll through the catalogue as I walked through the gallery.  

Dig for the context

By not including the label next to the artwork, there is an active removal of context from the artwork. These spaces may claim the digital era is more relevant, but in the process, it loses presence, respect, and the quiet act of truly seeing.

I'm thinking through Gérard Genette’s notion of paratexts here; labels act as signposts, guiding audiences towards certain meanings while highlighting their context. 

At its basic form, the artwork label holds information on: who the artist is, the title of the work, year made, the medium and material used to make the work and its dimensions. A wall label foregrounds the political or historical context of a work.

With no label, the audience is left in the dark, asked to find the light.

At an art fair, surrounded by other galleries and distractions, few will do that heavy lifting. This disrespects the artist as well. The audience need not consider the paratextual choices the artist has made. 

The QR code foregrounds technology, what notifications you get, and what your relationship is to your phone. 

As De Oliveira says, ”No one reads the wall text (if it exists)”. We can give the audience a little bit of grace. When the QR code is a literal command to take out your phone. Instead of walking slowly, reading, and absorbing context, visitors are prompted to lift their phones and scroll. 

This is exactly the kind of constructed attention Crary critiques in modern visual culture. The experience of observing the art is mediated, less immediate, less tactile, less relational. Notifications roll in, attention splits, and engagement is reduced to consumption. Might as well take a selfie and post it while phones are out. 

You don’t need no vinyl

As a curator, I am failing to understand why you would relinquish your power for alleged convenience and preference. The curator does more than choose artwork and arrange its order. The curator can dictate where you look, how you look and therefore how you think and feel about the work. 

If the intention was to defy labelling traditions. It can be done with thought and care for the artist, their work and the audience’s experience. 

Fresco Gallery

Fresco Gallery soothed my hatred for the QR code, just a bit, with their human approach. One of the artists was on hand to act as a guide for visitors as they arrived. The artist told us about each work, the artist who created it, how it was made, and where they came from in context of the entire catalogue. 

However, there were no labels. There was the obligatory QR code in the corner, and curatorial cards available throughout the week. However, by Sunday, they had run out.

I was told that the artwork was intended to convey a single, unified voice, and that adding labels would disrupt that intent. There is a clear attention to care for the artist here, with a personal touch — yet the same problem remains: I still don’t know the titles of the works or who made them.

Labels in Arts Publishing 

I am by no means advocating for expensive vinyl labels, but care and accessibility do matter.

In brighter news, the QR code “infestation” hasn’t touched my beloved arts publishing section. Here, people were genuinely interacting with the material:

Pulp

There were no signs of QR codes. Instead, Pulp Paperworks used numbered vinyl marks that corresponded to a list of artists, with names pencilled in and pointing toward specific works and posters. The pencil was unnoticeable until you were close enough to the wall or the artwork. When I asked the representative at the gallery why they made this choice they said they didn’t know but all the artist represented came by and thought it was ‘pretty cool'. I later reached out to the space’s Curator Odette Graskie explained the choice as a call back to a postcard exhibition held at Pulp’s studio.

The use of pencil was explained as “... with the postcards as there are so many artists. I didn’t want the artists to go unnamed, but we didn't want to clutter the wall with white name tags.” 

This felt like a compromise that worked. No artists were erased, no QR codes forced you into your phone, and the pared-back labelling didn’t smother the wall either. It was playful, legible, and consistent with Pulp’s informal, DIY ethos. The same ethos was executed well by Iwalewabooks. 

Iwalewa Books

The artwork labels were handwritten, what I identified as a fine-liner on glossy self-adhesive paper, smaller than the palm of a hand. When I asked the curator/representative of the space why they made this decision, they said they didn’t want to spend their budget on expensive vinyl, but still wanted a label for each work. I asked if there was a QR code, and she said yes, but the QR code was easy to forget the space.

The indignation and refusal to adhere to traditional labelling conventions suited the booth’s political artwork and curatorial aesthetics. It’s anti-tradition while still DIY. It’s punk and queer. The visuals of the handwritten labels carried through the queer posters hung with nails and black fold clips, tinsel draped over tables where books lay, actual suitcases in the corners beside paintings of suitcases, and artist information pages printed and placed intentionally on the floor. This was organised disorder — the kind we come to associate with such politics.

The way it was curated made people walk around objects, bend down to pick up papers and read through them, stop at tables and page through books.  The setup encouraged slow and thoughtful engagement.

The ETC section was where I saw the fewest people on their phones. Visitors were genuinely engaged with the artworks on the walls and the publications on the tables. I might be biased, but arts publishing might be the exterminator we’ve been looking for, offering an antidote to the attention deficit and lack of care that the QR-code roaches drag into the fair.

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References

ART AFRICA Magazine (2025) ‘Death of a Salesman: FNB Art Joburg and the End of the Fairytale’, ART AFRICA Magazine, 8 September. Available at: https://artafricamagazine.org/death-of-a-salesman-fnb-art-joburg-and-the-end-of-the-fairytale/

Crary, J. (1992) Techniques of the Observer: On Vision and Modernity in the Nineteenth Century. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

Genette, G. (1997) Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Rousseaux, B. (2025) ‘The Museum in Contemporary African Context’, panel discussion, 7 September 2025.