Value is subjective. Without readers, a poem is worthless. In this sense, the value of art is analogous to the value of our world. Without those who experience it, our world may as well not exist.
Given such a nebulous hypothesis, what value do we assign to a work of art? An old English teacher of mine once spoke the phrase, “Poetry is what you bring to it, and what it brings to you.” I couldn’t agree more. As we read (or observe, in the case of Rembrandt) all of our experience, knowledge, and spirituality becomes intertwined with the artwork. Any given word will produce a different set of thoughts, emotions, and images in each reader. What is discouraging to one reader is inspiring to another. There just as much tragedy in decay as there is beauty.
This is the power of art—it creates whole new worlds for each individual. But beyond that, it maps out the elaborate shape of humanity’s common ground (a shape that is continuously shifting to the tides of culture, and a place that is all too often invisible). Therefore, we shouldn’t be asking what the objective value of a poem is, but what it is we value in ourselves.
Above all else: when the museum catches fire, get out.