Shakespeare famously said all the world is a stage, but perhaps this was a stroke of great artisic licence and what he could have said was that all the world is a market place. And we are all not players but traders or marketeers. Some of the greatest artists have been talented marketeers, knowing how to shock and stir our emotions, and behind this ability a subtle calculation—the desire not only to show a work, but to make sure it would be talked about, to ensure that the public or viewers would not remain indifferent. Today we might call this a marketing technique, though the artists of the past would mostly not have used such a phrase. And yet, if one looks closely at the history of art, it becomes clear that many great artists consciously built communication with their audience, created a special atmosphere around their works, and even turned them into events. This in no way diminishes their artistic value, but rather adds another layer—the ability to work with attention, emotions, and the expectations of the public.
In 19th century Russia, an example of such an approach can be found in Pavel Fedotov (1815–1852). His paintings were filled with satire and social observations, but the artist went further: he accompanied them with ratseya (from the Russian «рацея») — short rhymed verses that at once explained and ridiculed what was depicted. These texts served as a kind of verbal commentary to the paintings, as in the case of his famous ´The Major’s Courtship´. There Fedotov wrote ironically about poverty, about the futile chase after fashion, about ruined aristocrats and the new but no less superficial merchant class. Thus the viewer not only looked at the image but also immediately received keys to its interpretation. The painting and the poem together created a multilayered picture of the epoch, while the artist himself became something like a stage director, uniting painting and poetry to amplify the effect. It was, in a way, a marketing device that allowed the audience to immerse more deeply in the context, to empathize more strongly, and therefore to remember the work.
Another Russian artist, Konstantin Makovsky (1839–1915), chose a completely different path. He understood that female sitters wanted not merely a portrait, but a special status—a sense of belonging to something greater than a simple likeness. So Makovsky began collecting old Russian costumes and ornaments, integrating them into his artistic practice. Ladies who posed for him dressed in kokoshniks and luxurious garments, and the sitting became a ritual. The resulting portrait was not just beautiful—it acquired an aura of historicity and cultural depth, as if each model had become part of a legend about the greatness of Russian culture. For his clients it was akin to purchasing symbolic capital, and for the artist—a brilliant way to strengthen his name and forge a unique style that set him apart from colleagues. Makovsky was attuned to the moment: society’s interest in national themes was growing, and he offered a ready-made form in which both artist and patron benefited. This was an exemplary case of how a marketing device could be organically woven into art and serve both sides.
Of course such strategies were not new and art history is full of precedents – in the 17th century Rembrandt (1606–1669) collected costumes and accessories from different cultures and dressed his sitters in them. Turkish turbans, exotic fabrics, weapons—all gave his paintings a distinctive atmosphere. The viewer saw not simply a portrait but a whole world, full of allusions to distant lands, wealth, and power. Here marketing was built into the very foundation of artistic intention: Rembrandt understood that viewers wanted to see in a painting not only themselves, but also a dream of something larger than their own lives.
In the twentieth century artists’ marketing strategies became far more intentional. Andy Warhol (1928–1987) was perhaps the first to state openly that art is business, and that there is nothing shameful in it. He consciously turned his own name into a brand and everyday objects into works of art. His famous Campbell’s soup cans became the symbol of an entire era. Warhol displayed them in a gallery as though it were a grocery store, and viewers realized for the first time that art could be not lofty but utterly commonplace. It was both a provocation and a clever calculation. He took what was familiar to everyone and transformed it into an image impossible to forget. For him, the soups were not only a memory of childhood and of a daily staple, but also a symbol of democracy: a can of Campbell’s could be bought by both a president and a homeless vagabond. Warhol made art both mass and elite, and in this lay his brilliant marketing strategy.
Working in a similar vein is Jeff Koons (b. 1955), who began as a ticket seller at MoMA and then as a stockbroker. The experience of financial trading taught him an essential lesson: one must create not only for oneself but also for the public. Koons realized that the strongest emotions are tied to childhood, to toys, to the feeling of joy and simplicity. That is how his metallic puppies, rabbits, and other “toys for adults” appeared. Their glossy surfaces reflect the viewers themselves, and each person saw in them his or her own face, memory, or feeling. It was a calculated device: Koons’s works required no special preparation, they spoke immediately to everyone, from a billionaire to a casual museum visitor. In this way he showed that art could be accessible and comprehensible without complex interpretations, and that the power of a work lies in its ability to instantly evoke emotions and create a sense of celebration.
If Warhol turned banalities into art and Koons brought us back to childhood, René Magritte (1898–1967) pursued philosophy. His famous phrase “Ceci n'est pas une pipe” was a marketing lesson long before the term itself existed. Magritte demonstrated that we consume not objects but ideas. We do not buy a pipe—we buy the representation of it. In contemporary marketing this has become a rule: what is sold is not the product, but meaning, image, lifestyle. Magritte anticipated his time and turned a painting into an advertising slogan, an aphorism easy to quote and impossible to forget. At the same time, in his own life he was quite pragmatic: although he openly expressed disdain for commerce, when it came to his own livelihood he accepted various jobs—copying his works for collectors, painting interiors, and during the war even producing forgeries of Titian and Picasso. This is precisely what distinguishes a good entrepreneur—the ability to adapt, to negotiate, to find ways of remaining in demand under any circumstances.
All these examples show that art has never existed in a vacuum. Artists have always understood that what matters is not only what you create, but also how you present it, how you draw the viewer into your game. Some did it through poetry and social satire, others through costumes and rituals, others through everyday objects or reflective surfaces. In each case, the viewer was invited not simply to look, but to become part of the story, to feel included in the process. This feeling of participation is the central marketing device common to all great artists.
The art world today often contrasts pure creativity with commerce, but in reality these spheres have always been closely intertwined. An artist who could attract attention and generate intrigue around him or herself has most often remained in history, because his or her works not only have amazed the public of the day but have also been remembered. In this sense, marketing is not the enemy of art but its ally. It helps the artist speak to the viewer, find a common language, and create the very atmosphere in which the work becomes more than an object.
One might say that artists’ marketing devices are not so much crafty tricks as expressions of their human need to be heard. Fedotov wrote verses for his paintings because he wanted to be understood. Makovsky dressed his models in costumes because they themselves longed for a special image. Warhol and Koons spoke in the language of everyday life and memory because it was close to everyone. Magritte asked philosophical questions because he understood that behind simple objects lie entire worlds of ideas. And all of them, each in his own way, proved that art is always a dialogue. And for that dialogue to happen, one needs not only brush and paint, but also the ability to find a path into people’s hearts.
