What first catches the eye in The Experts is not the grandeur of the canvas or the drama of the scene, but the sly wit with which Alexandre-Gabriel Decamps transforms a solemn moment of artistic critique into a visual jest. Four monkeys, dressed in the sober garb of art connoisseurs, huddle around a painting, their postures mimicking the earnest scrutiny of human experts. The light falls directly on the painting within the painting, drawing us into their world and inviting us to join in the joke—are we, too, being asked to question the seriousness of art criticism? The details reward a closer look: the careful arrangement of the monkeys’ hands, the spectacles perched on a nose, the open sketchbook on the floor, and the palette hanging above all hint at a studio both real and parodic.

Decamps’ brushwork gives the animals a gravity that is almost convincing, only to undercut it with the absurdity of their roles. The palette is rich but muted, the shadows deep, lending the scene an air of importance that winks at the viewer. In 1837, when this work was created, such satirical “singerie”—images of monkeys aping human behavior—were a well-known genre, poking fun at the pretensions of society.

Decamps, working in a period when the art world was both expanding and fracturing, channels the anxieties and rivalries of his age into a scene that is as pointed as it is playful. The painting’s journey has brought it into the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s collection, where it continues to invite viewers to question: who, in the end, are the real experts?