The show consists of 180 objects, almost all of them from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ permanent collection. They include ceramics, posters, textiles, paintings, coins, sculptures, photographs, clothing, even a sundial. It dates from the French Revolution, and very handsome it is, too, though handsomeness is at best a passing factor here.

These objects range from the 5th century BC. to 2022. Although most are from the United States, others are from ancient Greece and Rome, France, Great Britain, Germany, Italy, Mexico, Nicaragua, and Argentina. “All over the map” is not just a number.

The show’s curators are MFA’s Phoebe Segal and Patrick Murphy, curators of classical art and prints and drawings, respectively. There was additional input from counselors in other departments, as well as several high school and college interns. So think of “Power of the People” as everywhere on the MFA map: e pluribus museum. It is clear that it was conceived and carried out as a group effort, a concept that is naturally democratic.

A silver “Sons of Liberty Bowl” executed by Paul Revere in 1768 is in the same gallery as a 5th century BC Greek drinking cup. (Revere makes a second appearance, with his familiar engraving of the Boston Massacre. Missing from the image is a black man, Crispus Attucks, who was among those killed by British soldiers. Bob Tomolillo’s 2020 version, included in the show, corrects that omission. )

An anti-slavery badge from 1863 evokes democracy expanded. Just 2 inches tall, it shares the same gallery as Jaune Quick-to-See Smith’s “Tribal Map,” from 2000, which measures 7½ feet by 10 feet. A mixed-media work on canvas, it evokes democracy denied, depicting the contiguous 48 states and parts of northern Mexico and southern Canada, with the superimposed names not of states or provinces but of the indigenous peoples who live or lived there.

The performance is divided into three parts: the promise of democracy, the practice of democracy and the preservation of democracy. These designations seem more porous than not. For example, preservation includes sections devoted to art and activism and freedom of the press. Can they fall equally well under the headings promise or practice? That said, some of the works take on an added power when viewed in terms of the part of the show they’re in. Jim Dow’s photograph of a dozen empty jury seats in a Georgia courthouse is as eloquent as anything on view here , and its presence within Practice underscores that eloquence.

There are works here by some famous names, and they come from all over the art history map: Albrecht Dürer, Andy Warhol, Jean-Antoine Houdon, Honoré Daumier, Jean-François Millet, Richard Hamilton, Richard Serra, Norman Rockwell, Shepard Fairey, Martin Puryear, Saul Steinberg, Barbara Kruger.

Far more works are by unknown artists, which is as it should be. Aesthetic concerns are almost always secondary here. Art is about means, how something is done – its manner, its quality, its formal characteristics – and the execution of that “how” determines the judgment of a work’s merit. Democracy is completely different. It is about the pursuit of goals: justice, equality, order, freedom, the list goes on. That these goals can be in opposition to each other is part of the chaos and frustration of democracy.

There is another contradiction: art is inherently elitist. Museums are built on the belief that some art is superior to other art – why else go to the great trouble and expense of collecting, preserving and displaying certain works? Yet elitism is (at least in principle) anathema to democracy.

That contradiction can be problematic. The sincerity of the creators of the several dozen political posters in the show is never in doubt. However, their artistry often is. Polemical passion can be aesthetically counterproductive. Aesthetic considerations are hardly relevant, or should not be. It is a given that ends outweigh means. It is the rare artist who can honor the imperatives of both art and polemic. The highest example may be Goya. Here, the best example is Daumier (it helps that he understood the polemical utility of humor so well).

Conversely, a lack of commitment can be even more problematic than an excess of it. Politically engaged Warhol was not; and a 1964 screen print of racial conflict in Alabama feels worse than just going through the motions—worse, because Warhol is so much less interested in civil rights than he is Marilyn or Liz or Elvis or even Campbell’s soup cans. The print is as empty as Andy’s toupee without Andy’s head in it.

A related issue is specificity. Inevitably, so many of the posters are conceptual. Their job is to render the abstract visual. The limitations this may entail become clear when looking at the photographs in the show. Their overwhelming specificity gives them an impact and immediacy that posters simply cannot compete with. The clearest example is both the most terrifying and the one that hits closest to home – “home” meaning in this case City Hall Plaza. It is Stanley Forman’s Pulitzer Prize-winning image of a young white man using an American flag to attack a black man held in place by another young white man. This was 1976, America’s Bicentennial, and also the third year of court-ordered desegregation in Boston.

Specificity is a defense, by no means foolproof, against the vagaries of argument and how lame it can be. The most famous posters on display are a set of Rockwells “Four Freedoms” from 1943. In their way, they are as much a part of our collective democratic consciousness as the Capitol or the topography of Gettysburg.

But viewed through the eyes of the 21st century, one sees something besides Rockwell’s graphic skill, the depth of feeling and the nobility of feeling. That is how, with an adjustment of the text, a translation of that text into German and the use of a Fracture font, one can easily imagine how these images of upright, mostly Nordic-looking people would have appeared no less upright—there is no polite way to put this—on posters in Nuremberg in 1943. We take these truths to be self-evident, but what happens when others consider these truths to be propaganda?

That’s where the hard work of democracy comes in, with both promise and preservation deferring to practice. It’s silly to talk about a seminal work in a show as rich and expansive as “Power of the People.” But reviewers are prone to such silliness. So give that title to Paul Shambroom’s photograph of a village council meeting in Louisiana in 2002. It actually looks pretty boring, but that’s the point. So much of democracy is just that, boring. It was as true in Maurice, La., 22 years ago as it was in Athens 2,500 years ago. Everyday life meets democracy — everyday life is democracy — and as with the particularity of photography, the particularities of everyday actions ensure that the agonizing and endless work of democracy gets done.

Of course, there is another, even more important measure, which is neither daily nor limited to elected officials or jurors, however important those individuals are. That action takes place every four years (or two, depending on the election). It’s the title of a Shepard Fairey poster in the show: “Vote!” Simple, direct, democratic. That title certainly looks like another one of Fairey’s, his most famous, “Hope.”

THE POWER OF THE PEOPLE: Art and democracy

At the Museum of Fine Arts, 465 Huntington Ave., through Feb. 16 617-267-9300 www.mfa.org

Mark Feeney can be reached at [email protected].