In this reflective essay for Vickery Art, young art historian Angie Afifi considers how repetition and seriality have shaped the way artworks are made, seen, and understood. Moving from Monet and Warhol to Russian and Soviet examples, the article offers a personal critical reading of the series as a structure through which meaning emerges gradually, through variation, comparison, and accumulated perception.
Text by Angie Afifi
In a gallery or museum, attention is often first drawn to a single painting that stands out through its colour, composition, or overall mood, prompting the viewer to pause and consider what produces such an impression. However, as the gaze moves further, it gradually becomes apparent that nearby there are several works united by a similar motif or theme, and at this point perception begins to shift, since importance is no longer attached only to each painting individually, but also to the differences between them. When such works are considered together, it becomes clear that they function not as isolated images, but as parts of a more complex structure in which each subsequent variation clarifies or alters the previous one, adding new nuances to perception. As a result, attention shifts from the individual image to the process unfolding between them, and the viewer begins to perceive not only the paintings themselves, but also the transitions that connect them.
For this reason, a series is often perceived differently from a single work. An individual painting typically captures a specific moment and presents a complete visual image, whereas a series makes it possible to trace changes in the same motif under different conditions. In such comparison, the viewer inevitably begins to relate the images to one another, noticing which elements remain constant and which transform, and it is precisely in this comparison that an additional level of understanding emerges, one that cannot be achieved through the perception of a single work.
This mode of perception closely resembles the way in which a person experiences reality, since experience is not formed from a single moment but from a sequence of recurring situations, in which differences become noticeable precisely through their accumulation. In this sense, a series proves to be closer to the real perception of time, as it does not present a fixed state but rather a gradual transformation. Such a way of perceiving also resonates with ideas of poststructuralism, where meaning does not reside in a single fixed image, but arises through differences and their sequence.
A clear example of this approach can be found in the haystack series by Claude Monet (1840-1926), created in 1890–1891 in the surroundings of Giverny, where the artist repeatedly returned to the same motif, depicting it at different times of day and under varying lighting conditions. When viewed individually, each of these works appears as a complete image with a specific mood and colour palette; however, when several paintings are considered together, it becomes evident that Monet’s primary subject was not the haystack itself, but the changes of light.
In the morning versions, the form appears softer and lighter; during the day it becomes more contrasted and defined; by evening it gradually loses clarity, dissolving into cooler tones. Through such repetition, the same object ceases to be perceived as static and begins to be understood as a changing phenomenon, allowing the viewer to perceive not only its form, but also the process of its transformation. This approach was not accidental and reflects the broader aims of Impressionism, within which artists sought to convey not the stable form of an object, but the variability of its perception. Their interest was focused on light, atmosphere, and fleeting states that cannot be fixed once and for all. For this reason, returning to the same motif was not repetition in a literal sense, but a method of observation. Through a series, the artist could show how the visible changes depending on time of day, weather, or the position of the observer. In this context, the series functions as a tool of investigation, allowing one to approach the very process of perception.
However, in twentieth-century art repetition begins to serve a different function and is used not so much to capture variability as to analyze images themselves and the ways in which they are reproduced. In the work of Andy Warhol, for example, repetition operates precisely in this way. His series of Campbell’s soup cans, presented in 1962, consists of a large number of nearly identical images that differ only in minor details. When viewing a single painting, attention is focused on the recognizability of the object and its visual simplicity, but when the entire series is seen together, it becomes clear that the key element is not the object itself, but the principle of its repetition.
Through this repetition, the emphasis shifts from the image to the logic of its reproduction, and the viewer begins to perceive not an individual object, but the system in which it exists. A similar effect occurs in the series of portraits of Marilyn Monroe, where the repeated reproduction of the same face gradually strips it of its individuality, transforming it into a symbol. In this sense, such an approach resonates with the structuralist understanding of the image, in which meaning is formed not within the object itself, but within a system of repetitions and differences.
In Russian art, repetition is also often connected with much broader themes such as history and collective experience, as can be seen in the works of Vasily Surikov (1848-1916), where, despite differences in subject matter, similar motifs of conflict, exile, and pressure of power can be identified. When viewed individually, each painting appears as a complete dramatic scene; however, when considered together, a conceptual link between them becomes apparent.
This connection is not expressed directly, but emerges through the repetition of certain themes and situations, creating the impression that history does not develop linearly but returns to similar patterns. In this way, the series is formed not as a formal grouping of works, but as a means of revealing the recurrence of historical processes.
The avant-garde of the early twentieth century used repetition as a tool for constructing a new artistic system, which is particularly evident in the work of Kazimir Malevich (1879-1935), where the same geometric form appears in different variations and is gradually reduced to its simplest form. When viewed individually, such works may seem radical or even provocative, but the series allows the underlying logic of this process to become visible. In this case, repetition functions as a sequential investigation of form, shifting attention from the image to the principle of its construction. A similar approach can be observed in the work of Alexander Rodchenko (1891-1956), where repeated elements form a system in which the process itself becomes more significant than the final result.
It is also worth noting that in Soviet art repetition was often used to convey the scale of transformation, as can be seen in the series by Konstantin Bogaevsky (1872-1943) devoted to the oil fields of Baku, where the same elements — derricks, hills, and horizon lines — are repeated with slight variations. When viewed individually, such works may appear as representations of a specific place, but the series reveals the systematic nature of these changes.
In this context, repetition emphasizes rhythm and uniformity, while also reinforcing the sense of scale, transforming individual images into a broader statement about the transformation of space. At the same time, through accumulation, the industrial landscape begins to be perceived not only as documentation, but as a visual image with its own expressive qualities.
In the unofficial art of the second half of the twentieth century, repetition acquires a critical function. This is particularly evident in the works of Vitaly Komar (b.1943) and Alexander Melamid (b.1945), who reproduced the style of socialist realism with slight modifications. When viewed individually, such works certainly appear ironic, but the series also reveals the mechanism underlying the visual language of ideology.
Through the repeated use of the same images, their formulaic nature becomes apparent, allowing the viewer to perceive not only the image itself, but also the structure behind it. In this case, repetition functions as a method of analysis, making visible patterns that might remain unnoticed in a single work. In Russian art, this principle often takes on a more extended and stable character, as recurring images gradually become fixed in perception. This can be seen, for example, in lubok prints, which are inherently based on seriality, as well as in the landscapes of Isaac Levitan (1860-1900), where similar motifs reappear across different works. As a result, an individual image ceases to be perceived as isolated and instead becomes part of a broader visual continuum, forming a stable impression associated not with a specific place, but with a particular state.
Thus, a series does not negate the value of a single painting but rather complements it by expanding the boundaries of perception and allowing one to observe the changes that occur to a motif through repetition. This makes perception more complex and layered, as the viewer takes into account not only the image itself, but also its variations, the differences between them, and the transitions that emerge through comparison. In this sense, a series offers not merely a different type of artistic experience, but transforms the very way in which an image is perceived. In serial works, individual images inevitably relate to one another, and their meaning depends not only on what is depicted, but also on their position within the sequence. As a result, meaning is no longer fixed within a single work, but emerges through differences and transitions, shifting from one variation to another. The series thus calls into question the idea of a completed image, as none of the works is perceived as final — each exists in relation to the others. For this reason, the return to the same motif is not simply a matter of refinement or development, but a way of demonstrating that the object itself does not possess a fixed meaning. Its perception depends on context, sequence, and the position of the observer, and is therefore formed in the process rather than given in advance.
