We tend to think of the gala as a modern creature, a thing of step and repeat carpets, themed dress codes and seven figure fundraising totals. In its present form it largely is.

An exhibition gathers pictures. A community gathering gathers people, and the art is the reason they came.

We tend to think of the book signing as a small, almost humble thing, a queue, a felt-tip pen, a few murmured words and a scribbled name on a title page. Yet behind that quiet ritual lies a long and surprisingly grand history, one that runs through royal libraries, Victorian theatres and the slow rise of the author as a public figure.

We tend to think of the beauty pageant as a fixed and slightly old fashioned thing, a parade of sashes and tiaras beamed out of some endless twentieth century. Yet the idea behind it, that a community might gather to crown a single woman as the image of its own ideal, is far older than the swimsuit round or the television broadcast, and far stranger.

We tend to think of the art fair as a thoroughly modern invention, a creature of private jets, champagne sponsors and dizzying price tags. In its present form it largely is.

We tend to assume that art has always hung on a wall waiting to be looked at. For most of its history it did not.