The chronicle

Can a genius be scrolled past?

In an age of artificial intelligence, instant visibility and the relentless circulation of images online, it is tempting to assume that every important artist will eventually be seen. Yet the history of art suggests the opposite: that true discovery depends not on access alone, but on patience, judgement and the rare ability to stop, look closely and recognise value before the world has learned to do so.

Text by Angie Afifi

When people talk about undiscovered geniuses, it is usually either a light nostalgia for a time when one could supposedly still “find” a genius in a studio on the outskirts, or a confident belief that this is no longer possible because the internet has made everything accessible. But if we set these extremes aside, the question becomes more precise and far more unsettling: is it possible today, in a world of endless image feeds, to simply fail to notice a truly strong artist, not to stop, not to look closely, to scroll past their work as easily as a random photograph. The answer, if we rely on history and on how contemporary attention is structured, turns out to be uncomfortably direct. Yes, it is possible. Moreover, it happens constantly.

The issue is not that talented people have disappeared or that the quality of art has declined. What has changed is the very mechanism of perception. We have stopped looking in the traditional sense of the word. The gaze has become fast, reactive, oriented toward recognition rather than understanding, and in this mode everything that requires time, effort, or inner tension ends up at the edge of visibility.

If we step away from our digital present and look at how artistic canons were formed in the past, it becomes clear that the “discovery” of an artist was never accidental. It was almost always a complex and prolonged process involving specific individuals who made decisions against the prevailing opinion. One of the most illustrative examples is Paul Durand-Ruel, who believed in the Impressionists at a time when their painting was considered worthless. At that time, their exhibitions caused scandal and misunderstanding, their work was sharply criticized and accused of bad taste, and the very nickname “Impressionists” emerged as a mockery. But Durand-Ruel went against the current. What is particularly important is that he did not simply buy Impressionist works, he systematically created a market for them, organized exhibitions, sought out buyers, endured losses, and maintained his position for years. A similar approach can be seen in Ambroise Vollard, who visited the studio of Paul Cézanne (1839-1906) when he was still considered almost a failure, and bought his works without any guarantee of future recognition. Another key example is Daniel-Henry Kahnweiler, who supported Pablo Picasso (1881-1973) and Georges Braque (1882-1963) when their Cubism provoked confusion and even irritation. This clearly shows that what is often at stake is not “finding” but “constructing”, because these people actually created the conditions in which it became possible to learn about the very artists we still talk about today. There is also an important detail, they had time. They could look for a long time, doubt, return to the same work again and again, and gradually grasp its essence.

In the twentieth century, this logic became even more evident in the field of so called outsider art, where the very idea of artistic value was questioned. Jean Dubuffet (1901-1985), who first introduced the concept of art brut, deliberately sought out works by people outside the artistic system, patients of psychiatric clinics, prisoners, self-taught artists, those who had no access to academic education. His contemporaries often perceived this as something strange or even tasteless, but today these works are considered an important part of the artistic field. Later, Bruno Decharme (b.1951) continued this line, turning scattered discoveries into archives and collections accessible to researchers. And Sidney Janis (1896-1989) went even further and began exhibiting works by self-taught artists alongside those of recognized masters, thereby erasing the boundary between “professional” and “naive” art. All of these examples point to the same pattern. To discover an artist, it is not enough to notice them. One must be ready to question existing criteria and withstand the pressure of dominant taste. In the digital environment, this becomes more difficult, because any non-standard decision instantly dissolves in the vast stream of images, where attention is distributed not by depth but by speed of reaction.

This becomes especially clear when we turn to individual artistic destinies, where the question of whether a genius can be scrolled past takes on an almost literal meaning. Henry Darger (1892-1973) worked as a janitor during his lifetime and lived a reclusive life. After his death, an enormous archive of texts and illustrations was found in his room, a whole fictional world created without any expectation of an audience. At the same time, no one around him perceived him as an artist, his works remained unnoticed. Today, however, they are exhibited in museums and valued at hundreds of thousands of dollars. A similar story belongs to Séraphine Louis (1864-1942), a housekeeper who painted in her spare time. She was noticed by Wilhelm Uhde (1874-1947), who simply did not walk past one of her works. This moment is almost physically felt as a point of choice, one could have ignored it, and then no discovery would have taken place. There are also longer cases of oblivion. Johannes Vermeer (1632-1675) was largely forgotten for two centuries until Théophile Thoré-Bürger (1807-1869) brought him back into the history of art. William Blake (1757-1827) was considered eccentric and incomprehensible during his lifetime, recognition came later. Particularly revealing is the case of Hilma af Klint (1862-1944), who created abstract works before the recognized founders of abstraction, but her art was understood only decades later. All of these stories show that one can scroll past not only a single work, but an entire era.

Returning to the present, there is a temptation to say that today everything is different, because access to art has become almost unlimited. But this is precisely where the main paradox lies. It has become easier for an artist to show their work, but much harder to be noticed. The flow of images is so vast that attention ceases to be natural and becomes a managed resource. Algorithms offer us what already resonates, reinforce the familiar, repeat the recognizable, and in this system the new is at a disadvantage. It requires effort, while the system is designed to minimize effort. As a result, the most interesting, complex, or simply unfamiliar works may remain outside the main field of visibility, not because they are hidden, but because they are not supported by the logic of attention distribution.

Nevertheless, the mechanisms of discovery have not disappeared, they have simply changed and become less visible. One of the most persistent is the situation in which artists find other artists. Pablo Picasso once paid attention to African sculpture, which strongly influenced his language. Paul Klee (1879-1940) collected children’s drawings and works by people outside the academic environment, seeing in them a spontaneity that professional art often loses. Today, this role is partly performed by small professional and semi professional communities on the internet, where artists and curators share discoveries, sometimes bringing to light names that algorithms ignore. There are also other channels, for example those connected with the medical and social sphere. Hans Prinzhorn (1886-1933) in the early twentieth century collected drawings by patients and perceived them as art. In contemporary practice, a similar role is sometimes played by art therapists and social workers, who become the first viewers for authors outside the institutional system. Finally, there is an important layer of private collecting, where people without strategies or ambitions buy works simply because they are interested. Such collectors often make mistakes, but it is precisely among these mistakes that genuine discoveries sometimes emerge.

In the end, the question of whether a genius can be scrolled past ceases to be abstract and becomes almost everyday. Yes, it can, and it happens constantly, because attention has become a limited resource, and the surrounding system is structured so that we look faster and faster. But this does not mean that the situation is hopeless. The ability not to scroll past, to stop in front of a work that initially seems strange or incomprehensible, is not an innate gift but a skill. It requires time, patience, and a willingness to doubt one’s first impression. As the history of art shows, it is precisely such moments of sustained attention and careful contemplation that lead to the most important discoveries.

The Power of Repetition in Art

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.

When Documentation Becomes the Artwork

In post-modern and contemporary art, the document has at times ceased to be a supporting record and become the work’s true locus of meaning, ownership, and authenticity. From Yves Klein to Sol LeWitt, Moscow Conceptualism, and Maurizio Cattelan, this text explores the paradoxical moment when certificates, instructions, and archives no longer merely accompany art, but define it.

Text by Angie Afifi

Are you sure that the authenticity of a masterpiece always hides in layers of paint, and not in the stack of papers that accompanies it?  Sometimes a huge pile of paperwork point to the attempts of a faker, or someone with a vested interest in promoting the work of art as genuine actually points to its very lack of authenticity or value.

But the main paradox is that sometimes these very papers—receipts, certificates, instructions—take over the role of the artwork itself, while the canvas or object becomes merely an attachment.

Have you ever considered that your own provenance archives may not simply confirm a work’s value, but completely overturn it, making the document the central figure of the entire story?

Imagine Paris in the late 1950s. The cold light of the Iris Clert Gallery, empty walls, silence. Yves Klein (1928-1962), in a suit, stands in the middle of the room and sells… nothing. Literally. The buyer pays in pure gold for a zone of immaterial pictorial sensibility—a piece of air that the artist has just consecrated with his presence. In return, he receives not a painting, but a simple sheet of paper with a signature and a stamp. It merely states that the owner has acquired a specific zone of immaterial pictorial sensibility—that very air sanctified by the artist.

Sometimes the ritual went further: in the presence of a notary, Klein would throw half of the gold into the waters of the Seine, giving it away to the river forever. The certificate remained with the buyer as the only material proof of ownership of emptiness.

This piece of paper did not accompany the artwork. It was the artwork. Without it, the zone dissolved into the air like smoke from burnt gold. I often catch myself thinking that in such moments you can feel the history of art exhale and change its skin—from matter to idea, from canvas to paper.

About ten years later, Sol LeWitt (1928-2007) - Klein’s exact contemporary - in New York went even further. His “Wall Drawings” are not paintings that hang. They are instructions on a certificate: “Draw on the wall ten thousand lines of varying length, randomly placed, color—red, blue, yellow.” The owner does not receive a finished work, but this very sheet with the artist’s signature. The artist may die, the wall may be repainted, but the certificate remains. It is the work. It can be inherited, sold, destroyed—and then the work disappears forever. LeWitt deliberately made the document the only constant carrier.

A similar shift can be observed in a different context, particularly within Moscow Conceptualism, through the Moscow Archive of New Art (MANI). Unlike traditional archives that merely preserve artworks, MANI functioned as a self-organized system in which documentation became the primary artistic medium. Artists and poets such as Ilya Kabakov (1933-2023), Andrei Monastyrsky (b.1949), and Lev Rubinstein (1947-2024), among others, worked in conditions where exhibitions were often inaccessible or ephemeral, and what remained were descriptions, photographs, typed texts, and personal records. These materials did not simply document the works—they constituted their most stable and transmissible form. MANI thus turned the archive into a site of artistic production, where the boundary between artwork and its documentation dissolved. In this sense, it anticipated practices in which the document no longer follows the work but precedes and defines it.

This is where the real magic of provenance begins. Those of us who dig through archives know: a document does not simply tell a story. Sometimes it creates it. Another key example is the story of the ‘Chair’ by Joseph Kosuth (b.1945). Three elements: a real chair, its photograph, and an enlarged copy of the dictionary definition of “chair.” But the main impact is precisely the textual element that fixes the idea. Without it, the entire installation collapses. In this iconic 1965 work Kosuth literally forced us to see language as material. The sheet with the definition became an equal part of the triptych, and then its core.

Or think of Lawrence Weiner (1942-2021). His works are phrases applied directly to the wall: “A square removal from a rug in use.” But what is sold is not the inscription, rather a certificate with precise instructions, where it tells you, in what typeface, and in what colour. The owner may hire a painter or do nothing at all, the artwork already exists at the moment the paper is signed. The document here is not a witness, but a creator.

And in 2019, Maurizio Cattelan (b.1960) brought this idea to an absurd brilliance. Of course, this is about the notorious banana taped to a wall. At an art fair in Miami, he presented an ordinary ripe fruit titled “Comedian.” The banana itself cost less than a dollar, but alongside it was sold a carefully prepared certificate of authenticity, a document with the artist’s signature, precise instructions for replacing the banana, and official confirmation that this particular fruit in this position constitutes the artwork. The banana could be eaten, it could rot, it could be replaced—but as long as the signed certificate existed, the artwork continued to live.

Cattelan released the work in a limited edition, only three copies. Initially they sold rather modestly, but the document accompanying each banana gradually turned the entire story into a cycle of provocations. Over time, those same certificates began to live a life of their own: one of them, years later, was sold at Sotheby’s for $6.2million. Paper once again proved stronger than a perishable fruit. Without it, the banana would have remained just breakfast, but with it, it became one of the most discussed and expensive gestures in contemporary art which is still attracting heated debate around the world and outside the art community.

In such moments, art seems to shift its point of balance. It is no longer fully anchored in the object. It is distributed between the object, the idea, and the document that fixes the rules of the game. And here, provenance ceases to be merely a history of ownership. It becomes a co-author—and sometimes the main character of the entire story.

A single sheet of paper can turn emptiness into art—and just as easily devalue it. But the point is not that art “moves” into paper. The point is that the document begins to determine what counts as a work, and where its boundaries lie.

What was once considered an attachment gradually moves out of a supporting role. The document no longer simply accompanies the work, it begins to participate in its existence on equal terms. And then the shift becomes visible: the work no longer fully coincides with the object. It arises at the intersection, between the thing, the idea, and what is fixed and recognized.

So perhaps the main question is no longer where authenticity resides, but where exactly the boundary of the work itself lies, in the object, in the idea, or in what binds them together.

Fabergé Eggs: From Romance to Revolution Forever

At Easter time Vickery Art is reflecting on the glamour and drama of the world’s most famous Easter Eggs, the Imperial Fabergé eggs which were gifted each year by the Russian Tsar to his consort and later the Dowager Empress as tokens of love and commitment reflecting the values and style of the Russian court. They mixed Western historicism with contemporary events in Russian history and the family life of the Tsars in what was the swan song of the Romanov Empire.

Text by Angie Afifi

Easter at the imperial court in Russia was not only the principal religious holiday of the year, but also an important social ritual where faith, politics, and the culture of gift-giving intersected. In the Orthodox tradition, Easter—the Bright Resurrection of Christ—celebrates the triumph of life over death and carries the idea of renewal and rebirth. The egg has long been one of its central symbols: it evokes the Holy Sepulchre from which new life emerged, while the red colour of traditional dyed eggs refers both to Christ’s shed blood and to His royal dignity.

This simple yet deeply symbolic form of the Easter egg became the foundation for one of the most recognizable artistic phenomena of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries: the Imperial Fabergé eggs. These works are often perceived primarily as luxurious jewelled objects, yet their significance extends far beyond decorative art.

The tradition of Easter gift-giving in the Imperial family existed long before the collaboration with Carl Fabergé. As early as the eighteenth century, exchanging Easter eggs was customary, with gifts ranging from simple painted examples to objects made of precious materials. Under Alexander III, this practice took on a new dimension. In 1885, he commissioned the first egg from Fabergé’s workshop as a gift for Empress Maria Feodorovna. Thus began the tradition of annual imperial commissions, later continued by Nicholas II. From that moment, the egg became not only a symbol of Easter, but also a carrier of meanings tied to family, memory, and the state.

Each piece was created through a carefully structured process. First, the concept was discussed, often linked to personal events or family anniversaries. This was followed by a design phase involving leading masters of the firm, such as Mikhail Perkhin (1860-1903) and Henrik Wigström (1862-1923). Production took several months and included complex techniques ranging from enamelling to mechanical engineering. Carl Fabergé himself acted more as an artistic director, overseeing overall quality and concept rather than executing each detail personally.

One of the defining features of the Imperial eggs is the presence of a “surprise” inside. This could take the form of a miniature portrait, a mechanical model, or a complex composition. The surprise played a conceptual role, revealing the central idea of the object. An egg might commemorate a significant event—such as a coronation, a marriage, the birth of an heir, or another important date. In this sense, these objects function not merely as jewellery, but as compact material archives encoding memory.

The Easter context is particularly significant here. In Orthodox tradition, the holiday is associated with renewal and the victory of life over death, and the Easter egg has long served as a visible sign of this mystery: the shell resembles a tomb, while the life hidden within anticipates the Resurrection. At the same time, Imperial eggs often engaged with themes of memory. This created a compelling interplay between the symbolism of rebirth and the preservation of the past. In certain cases, this duality becomes especially pronounced, as in memorial eggs dedicated to Alexander III of Russia, which function simultaneously as personal monuments and objects of religious significance. It is precisely this layered meaning that explains why these objects continue to attract not only collectors but also scholars.

Beyond their symbolism, the eggs are also remarkable for their stylistic breadth. Fabergé’s workshop drew on a wide range of historical sources, reflecting a distinctly late nineteenth-century fascination with historicism. Renaissance, Neoclassical, Empire, and Rococo motifs all appear across the series, often reinterpreted through a modern lens. This stylistic diversity was not accidental: it emerged from a combination of museum study, deep knowledge of European decorative arts, and sensitivity to court taste. Each egg can be understood as part of a broader dialogue with art history, while at the same time reflecting the aesthetic preferences of a specific moment. In this sense, the Imperial eggs form not a single stylistic category, but a sequence of objects that mirror shifting artistic epochs. This marks the entire series as being inherently modern, where style is seen as a constantly shifting value rather than inherent definition of one particular epoch, something that ironically was at odds with the extremely conservative values of the Russian Empire.

From a market perspective, the Imperial Fabergé eggs represent a unique and extremely niche segment of collectible art. Fifty Imperial eggs were created in total, and not all have survived, making every appearance on the open market an exceptional event in the auction world. A telling example is the sale of the Winter Egg at Christie's in London last year, which has been discussed in one of our previous publications and which confirmed its legendary status, demonstrating the continued strength and relevance of the market for Imperial Russian decorative art. The market itself remains highly selective and driven by provenance, condition, and historical documentation; even indirect archival references can significantly affect valuation.

This market dynamic was clearly illustrated in the dispersal of the Forbes Collection in 2004, one of the most important private assemblages of Fabergé works. Objects of this level possess a distinct aura: they are not only masterpieces of craftsmanship, but direct witnesses to the imperial past. This intangible quality, often remarked upon by specialists and collectors, plays a subtle yet powerful role in how they are perceived, both in the market and in scholarship.

Today, the Imperial eggs are most often viewed through the lens of museum display. However, they originally existed in a very different context: they were personal gifts intended for a very narrow circle. Their display was limited, and their primary significance lay in their internal symbolism rather than in public recognition. This shift in context is crucial for analysis, as once an object enters a museum or auction, it begins to function according to different rules, and its interpretation inevitably changes.

This transformation is also reflected in their contemporary cultural relevance. The blockbuster exhibition Fabergé: Romance to Revolution at the Victoria and Albert Museum in 2021–22 demonstrated a renewed and widespread interest in these works. The exhibition attracted significant public attention, not only as a display of luxury objects, but as a narrative of imperial culture, craftsmanship, and historical change. It confirmed that Fabergé’s work continues to resonate with modern audiences, bridging the gap between historical artifact and living cultural reference.

After the Revolution and during the last century many of these eggs left Russia, contributing to their integration into Western collections and the formation of a new circle of owners. In the twentieth century, the Fabergé name became synonymous with the highest level of jewellery art, although the firm’s original activities were far broader. The Imperial eggs played a key role in this transformation, becoming the house’s defining hallmark.

At the same time, the Imperial eggs continue to exist at the intersection of several traditions. On the one hand, they retain a strong connection to Orthodox Easter symbolism; on the other, they are part of a European jewellery tradition adapted to the Russian imperial court. This combination largely explains their universal appeal both within Russian culture and beyond it. Unlike Catholic and Protestant traditions—where Easter also celebrates the Resurrection but often emphasizes different motifs, such as Easter bunnies or chocolate eggs—in the Orthodox world, the egg remains above all a solemn and deeply religious sign, closely tied to the liturgy and the greeting “Christ is Risen!”

This deep cultural and religious layering helps explain the sustained interest in recent years in objects associated with Imperial Russia. While this applies to various categories of decorative art, the eggs remain central. Their recognizability, rarity, and narrative depth create a situation in which historical context directly influences market dynamics. For collectors and investors, this means that value is determined not only by materials and craftsmanship, but by the richness of cultural and historical associations.

Ultimately, the Imperial Fabergé eggs remain an exceptionally rare, if not unique example of objects in which religious tradition, court culture, art history, and the contemporary market converge. Their continued presence in museum and private collections, along with sustained interest from major institutions and auction houses, demonstrates that this is not a passing trend but a well-established and mature segment. These works are perceived not only as historical artifacts but also as enduring cultural reference points capable of maintaining their relevance across generations.

From a practical standpoint, Imperial eggs continue to perform the same function they did at the moment of their creation: they preserve memory and transmit meaning—only now on a different scale and for a different audience.

Hokusai: Prophet of the Modern Era in Rome

Hokusai’s art has long been filtered through the story of European modernism, yet this exhibition which has just opened at the Palazzo Bonaparte in Rome offers the chance to encounter him on his own terms: as an artist of extraordinary humanity, formal brilliance, and timeless relevance. Moving between market insight, personal reflection, and close looking, this text considers why his work still speaks so powerfully to us today.

Text by Jo Vickery

Katsushika Hokusai (1760–1849) is a quintessential example of an artist whose work continues to speak eloquently and with authenticity across generations and cultures. Immersing oneself in his art, one may choose to engage with its historical context or simply respond to the profound humanity that radiates from it. In Hokusai’s world, people remain part of nature, at one with the elements; it feels like a lost paradise. Even in his iconic Under the Great Wave off Kanagawa, where the figures in the boats are literally cradled by the immense swell of the sea, the sense of danger is secondary to the overwhelming force of nature itself. What remains is not fear, but awe: the dizzying power of the elements. Like his near contemporary J.M.W. Turner, Hokusai seems prescient of the modern era. His focus on genre scenes may root his work in its own epoch, yet the purity of his colour, the clarity of his forms, and the strength of his patterns feel astonishingly modern. One must constantly remind oneself that these works were made more than two centuries ago, I love this fact.

Prints and works on paper are easy to underestimate for all sorts of reasons. And one of the most overlooked areas of the art market remains that of works on paper, a category that includes printed material produced through a remarkably wide variety of techniques. Yet there is often a familiar arc in collecting: newer collectors begin with works on paper because they appear more affordable, while more mature collectors later return to them for entirely different reasons, recognising their sophistication, rarity, and historical importance. Hokusai produced thousands of impressions of the Great Wave, yet only a few hundred are known to survive today. They appear regularly at major international auctions; the most recent record was set at Christie’s New York in 2023, when an impression sold for $2.76 million. Earlier editions, with stronger colours and sharper lines, command the highest prices. Condition is exceptionally important in works on paper, since restoration and cleaning can be particularly challenging. As a result, a significant premium is placed on impressions that have survived the centuries in fresh, untouched condition.

The current exhibition in Rome at the Palazzo Bonaparte sits in a curious dialogue with the city’s Baroque architecture and classical archaeology, and is not, at first glance, an obvious home for this refined Japanese master of the humble print. Yet this is perhaps one of its strengths. Even on the opening day, the galleries were half empty and dimly lit, allowing for an unusually contemplative encounter with the works. The curators have added objects from the period to provide historical context, as well as a room of fun visual projections, but in truth for those of us art lovers and collectors the works require very little mediation. They speak entirely for themselves.

Like many students of art history in the West, I first encountered Hokusai unexpectedly and out of context: as a conduit to understanding Western European modernism.This exhibition gave me the opportunity to encounter him anew, to understand his work more fully, and to reconfigure what he means to me, so that he has become not merely a signpost, but one of the greatest artists in world art. There is his innate sense of colour, pattern, and rhythm; his inexhaustible inventiveness — one need only count the many ways he depicts water, whether as wave, sea, or multicoloured waterfall. There is also a gentleness in his work, a sense that time has momentarily come to rest: a girl making tea, a fisherman at work. And then there is the way his images seem to form part of a single, organically unfolding body of work, evolving gradually over the course of a long life, as the artist continued to live and work until the age of eighty-eight.

Speaking of modernism, Van Gogh famously wrote of Hokusai’s Great Wave: “These waves are claws, the boat is caught in them, you can feel it.” Like Van Gogh, Hokusai lived much of his life in poverty, famously moving house repeatedly and inhabiting chaotic, crowded conditions — a far cry from the peace, elegance, and harmony of his art.

He is often associated with the “floating world”, a translation of the Japanese ukiyo, a term that refers to the pleasures and passing experiences of urban life: theatre, travel, leisure, and the fleeting fabric of the everyday. Hokusai captured his fellow countrymen and women engaged in daily activities across the social spectrum, always with an eye for the beauty he found in them and an underlying sense of impermanence. In this respect, one might draw a loose parallel with France at the turn of the last century, where artists likewise turned to modern life around them, capturing fleeting moments in the city. There is, perhaps, a distant connection between the floating world of Edo Japan, a time of cultural growth and social stability, and French Impressionism. Part of the enduring value of such works lies precisely in their delight in everyday life, and in the suggestion that even the smallest moment is sufficient to affirm and celebrate human existence. In other words, we do not need myth or illusion: we can grasp humanity’s essence in the shifting world, values alien to Classical Rome.

Hokusai also overturns the popular, if fanciful, notion that artists reach their peak in early or middle life, only then to decline into repetition and diminishing importance. He produced what is widely regarded as his greatest work late in life. His most famous series, Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji — which includes The Great Wave — was created when he was around seventy, and he continued working well into his eighties. A man of relatively few words, he nevertheless famously remarked that he had only begun truly to understand art in his seventies. There is no cult of youth here, no mythology of the prodigy. Hokusai began by spending many years in the studio system, largely designing prints in the manner of his master, and only truly forged his independent path after his master’s death.

What does Hokusai have to teach us today, nearly three centuries later? In a world increasingly defined by urbanisation, digitisation, and alienation from genuine social interaction, his work reminds us that there are other values and other ways of living. It encourages us to put down our phones and simply look around us: even in the heart of the city, one may still find a quiet moment in a park, or a fleeting instant of stillness. Hokusai shows us that there is profound power in such moments, and in the act of truly seeing them.

Hammershøi. The Eye that Listens

The exhibition Hammershøi. The Eye that Listens offers not simply a retrospective of Vilhelm Hammershøi’s work, but an invitation to experience painting as a form of quiet, attentive perception. Through its focus on emptiness, light, and interiority, it reveals how his restrained compositions draw the viewer into an active process of looking that becomes, in effect, a kind of listening.

Text by Angie Afifi

The exhibition Hammershøi. The Eye that Listens, on view from February 17 to May 31, 2026 at the Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza, marks the first major retrospective of Danish painter Vilhelm Hammershøi (1864-1916) in Spain. The subtitle itself, ‘The Eye that Listens,’ already sets a particular mode of perception, in which vision ceases to function as a purely visual act and begins to operate as a form of inner attention, almost like listening. In this sense, the exhibition from the very beginning proposes not so much a historical overview as a particular way of looking, or more precisely, of listening to Hammershøi’s painting.

The exhibition is arranged in a rather restrained manner, yet it is not without a carefully considered dramaturgy. Dark grey walls and dim lighting create an expected sense of intimacy, but what matters more is something else: the feeling of gradually entering a space where the usual museum distance begins to disappear. Hammershøi’s works are not completely isolated; nearby, works by other artists appear, allowing us to read him both as part of a broader artistic tradition and at the same time as a figure that breaks away from it, which in turn encourages further associative comparisons on the part of the viewer.

Perhaps the central and most compelling characteristic of Hammershøi’s work is emptiness. However, this is not absence as such, but rather a specific state of indeterminacy in which the viewer becomes involved in the process of meaning-making. The lack of a fully developed narrative, figures turned away from us, enclosed interiors where other hidden spaces are suggested through doors and openings, all of this creates a situation of visual and psychological ambiguity and incompleteness. It is precisely this that provokes the viewer into an inner activity, into the need to complete what is seen, to project personal interpretations, and as a result to fill in the gaps proposed by the artist.

In this sense, Hammershøi’s painting appears paradoxically close to those artistic and theoretical strategies that will only fully develop in the art of the twentieth century. What is at stake is a shift from the image as a finished statement to the artwork as an open structure that requires the participation of the viewer. It is telling that similar questions about the limits of the image, the role of emptiness, and the involvement of the perceiver become central, for example, in the theoretical writings of Wassily Kandinsky (1866-1944) around the same time. Of course there was no direct influence, since their artistic languages develop independently and remain stylistically incomparable. Nevertheless, while in Kandinsky these issues receive an explicit and often declarative formulation, in Hammershøi they are realized on the level of intuitive painterly practice, through light and an extreme reduction of the visual.

It is precisely here that the particular duality of his art lies: while touching on questions fundamental to modernism, it remains outwardly restrained, clear, and therefore more accessible to a wider audience.

There is another artist with whom an interesting comparison can be made, although he belongs to a completely different period and works in a different medium, Eduardo Chillida (1924-2002). As with Hammershøi, emptiness plays an important role in his work. But if in Chillida emptiness is more often perceived as an element of form, as part of the sculpture itself, almost a classical device of abstract art, then in Hammershøi everything functions differently. In his case, emptiness is rather a psychological state. It is not “nothing,” but on the contrary a space filled with a sense of ожидание, silence, and incompleteness.

Yet perhaps the first artist that comes to mind when looking at Hammershøi’s works is Johannes Vermeer (1632-1675). And this resemblance is far from accidental. Hammershøi was not simply inspired by his painting, he studied Vermeer’sworks closely, learned from them, admired them, and to a certain extent even emulated them. However, this similarity manifests itself not so much at the level of direct visual borrowing as in the effect their paintings produce on the viewer: a sense of calm, silence, and inner stillness, conveyed through a soft, muted, almost monochrome palette in which everything seems to dissolve into a greyish blue and pale haze, creating the impression of a deep, almost tangible quiet.

Almost empty interiors, wrapped in a light melancholy, with slowly flowing light and rare figures absorbed in themselves, do not simply depict space, but rather draw the viewer into a state of stillness and meditative suspension.

In contrast to colour, toward which Hammershøi remained largely indifferent, light was central to his work. In the conditions of the Northern European climate of Denmark, with its constant clouds and pale sky, every ray of sunlight entering a room becomes a vivid impression, almost a small miracle, and it is precisely this feeling that he repeatedly conveys in his quiet interiors.

Floors, walls, tables, and chairs function merely as supporting elements, all subordinated to a single task: to show how light fills space. The idea of simultaneous presence and absence periodically emerges through the figure of a woman, who is almost always turned away from the viewer. This is a deliberate strategy of depersonalization that transforms her into a generalized image, stripped of individual features and emotions, helping to preserve the atmosphere of quiet detachment and contemplation.

A similar approach can be seen in Vermeer: his figures seem to pause in silent contemplation, their hands calmly placed or occupied, their poses natural and restrained, their faces without pronounced emotion. There are no theatrical gestures or baroque expressiveness, even though he lived in the Baroque era, when art was often filled with drama, movement, and emotional intensity. The same careful attention to light is evident in his work, as he studied how it shapes volume, constructs space, and creates depth. His interiors are always quiet and contemplative, free from unnecessary movement. Hammershøi clearly builds upon these strategies; he himself acknowledged Vermeer’s influence, and art historians often refer to him as the “Danish Vermeer.”

When looking at Hammershøi’s works, beyond Vermeer, one inevitably recalls the broader tradition of seventeenth century Dutch genre painting, with its characteristic attention to everyday domestic life unfolding within restrained, almost minimalist bourgeois interiors. This tradition is also marked by carefully constructed perspective and composition, in which soft light envelops objects and figures, entering through windows and doorways, as well as by a particular treatment of the everyday as something elevated and worthy of contemplation.

Vermeer was among the first to develop the effect of spatial depth by guiding the viewer’s gaze through a sequence of gradually unfolding interiors. This compositional device is later developed by Pieter de Hooch (1629-1684), Emanuel de Witte (1617-1692) and Samuel van Hoogstraten (1627-1678). In Vermeer, however, the genre scene acquires an almost metaphysical dimension, where domestic space is organized as a particular mode of perception, conveying a slowing of time, isolation, and concentration.

In this context, it becomes especially interesting how the exhibition at the Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza guides the viewer toward this perceptual state. This is achieved largely through the rhythm of the exhibition itself, increased distances between the works, and an almost deliberate refusal of excessive textual explanation that might otherwise fix interpretation in advance. The curatorial approach gently directs the viewer toward a slowing down of vision to such an extent that at a certain point one begins to notice that the focus is no longer on the subject or the figure, but on the intervals between them, on those very empty spaces that at first seemed secondary. And it is precisely within them that the main content gradually begins to unfold.

It is this embodied experience that makes the exhibition so compelling, as the viewer is forced to abandon their usual speed of perception. The play with time and space, the emphasis on inner perception, and the demand not just for attention but for immersion in a particular state of presence all contribute to an experience that, despite the apparent visual simplicity of the paintings, becomes dense and even tense, as if, despite the silence we perceive in these works, something is happening, yet it deliberately escapes final definition.

IYin Xiuzhen and The Fabric of Change in London

Trained in the rigours of Soviet-style socialist realism in Beijing, Yin Xiuzhen belongs to a generation of Chinese artists whose horizons were dramatically widened by the arrival of contemporary Western art — above all Robert Rauschenberg’s landmark 1985 exhibition in Beijing, which helped shift her from painting towards a broader, more experimental practice. Yin Xiuzhen: Heart to Heart, a solo retrospective at London’s Hayward Gallery, traces that transformation through works that move from memory and demolition to travel, clothing and urban change, culminating in an immersive new installation that offers a vivid snapshot of the artist’s deeply personal yet global vision.

by Aleksandra Todorovic

If you approach Hayward Gallery from Waterloo Bridge, you will be treated to London’s skyline at its best. In the immediate surroundings, you will be nestled among the majestic Brutalism of Southbank Centre. Look east, and you will see such iconic buildings as St Paul’s Cathedral, Tower Bridge and The Shard; looking west, the panorama features the London Eye, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Once you step through the door of the Hayward Gallery, you will be greeted by a miniature version of all of these buildings, woven out of fabrics in myriad colours and patterns. Portable City: London is the most recent in Xiuzhen’s series of 46 miniature cities presented in suitcases, each commemorating a place the artist has visited, capturing an impression, a memory of a journey sewn out of second-hand clothes collected from local inhabitants. In this latest iteration of the subject, the used garments were donated entirely by the Southbank Centre’s staff. 

Seven other Portable Cities, including New York, Hamburg, Melbourne and Seoul, are arranged along a motionless luggage carousel, the impression of an airport complete with an airplane suspended from the ceiling, also made out of textile. As a Chinese artist born in 1963 and growing up during the Cultural Revolution, it wasn’t until she was in her 30s in the 1990s that Xiuzhen had the opportunity to travel abroad, to participate in international exhibitions and artist residences. Suddenly spending much time at airports, the artist started thinking about the implications of travel and, wishing to preserve her memory of places she had stayed in, she started this ever-growing series of works. In her fascination with textile, Xiuzhen’s art shares an affinity with her British contemporaries Tracey Emin (b. 1963) and Sarah Lucas (b. 1962), using this traditionally ‘female’ material to break artistic and societal boundaries with their intimate and intricately crafted objects. Working alone, without the help of studio assistants, Xiuzhen creates cityscapes of great beauty with painstaking dedication and detail. So much so that Portable City: London nearly missed being ready for the opening of the exhibition, according to a curatorial tour I stumbled upon during my visit. 

For all her international travel, Xiuzhen’s art is deeply rooted in her native Beijing. Fascinated by the whirlwind changes her city has witnessed over decades, in many of the works on display the artist zooms into a particular detail in order to expose and document the architectural, environmental and socio-economic impact of rapid urbanisation. In Ruined City (1996), pieces of old fashioned Chinese furniture and roof tiles are coated in dry cement powder, Xiuzhen remembers how the smell of this material used to fill the air. She recalls days when she would see buildings on her way to work, only for them to be gone by the time she was going back, and this rapid demolition of the old and construction of the new is powerfully evoked in Ruined City, the abandoned pieces of furniture a stark reminder that this was not just a sign of modernisation in Beijing’s architecture, but also the end of an era in people’s way of living, their intimate daily routines and a sense of community. 

This is all beautifully brought to life in the highly evocative work Beijing Opera (2001), a room filled floor to ceiling with Xiuzhen’s photographs of the Houhai neighbourhood, where an older generation of people passed their time outdoors. We are invited to walk around, or sit on miniature stools among the life-sized figures, mostly men, and for a moment immerse ourselves in a simpler, unhurried way of life and indulge in a similar sense of nostalgia that connects Xiuzhen’s compatriots with her Western audiences. 

The interplay between personal and public domains is perhaps best represented by Collective Subconscious (Blue) from 2007. Xiuzhen’s starting point for this work is a bread van, which she cut in two and she connected the front and the back with a harmonica-like tube made out of strips of clothing stitched together. In a city where most people used to own bicycles rather than cars, owning a bread van was the aspiration of many. The first car that Xiuzhen’s family owned carried many stories and memories, and stories and memories of numerous other families are woven into the multitude of colourful fabrics. In her words: ‘Even though, as a viewer looking at the clothes, you may just see the material, in fact, they’ve been worn by different people. [...] They carry so many invisible things.’

Xiuzhen’s fascination with clothes goes back to some of her earliest memories. During her childhood and youth in China, fabrics were rationed, and she describes having new clothes, painstakingly sewn by her mother, only for Lunar New Year. For the rest of the year, clothes would be passed down from family members or cut and patched up when they became too small. Whilst her mother worked in a factory that produced custom-made clothing for foreign export, the scarcity of Xiuzhen’s own clothes made each garment special, carrying memories of people, places and events that surrounded each piece. This is commemorated in My Clothes (1995/2021), where a number of old skirts, dresses, shirts and other items are carefully folded, stitched into a neat square and individually presented framed and hanging on a wall. Each one is accompanied by a text in which the artist tells the stories they all carry. 

Many of the works on display use fabric and cement; according to the artist, she sees one as a building material for constructing the individual, the other for constructing society. At the same time, there are works that offer a glimpse into many of her other artistic practices, ranging from photography, ceramics, installation and performance art. Xiuzhen’s academic training was, however, very different. In 1985 she was accepted into Beijing Normal Academy to study painting. ‘At the time, China wasn’t very open yet, and because my teacher had studied in the Soviet Union we were learning the Soviet style. Realism - socialist realism’, she recalls. That same year, she saw an exhibition of Robert Rauschenberg held at the National Art Gallery in Beijing, which had a profound effect on her understanding of art and was the first event that started to open her horizons to contemporary art practices beyond China. It wasn’t until the mid-1990s, however, that she started working in media other than oil painting. 

With her interest in themes of modernisation, globalisation, environmental and social change, Xiuzhen’s art has long bridged the gap between China and the West. Over recent decades her photographs and objects have been sold at international auctions and her works are held by public collections ranging from the Tate and Centre Pompidou to museums in Hong Kong, Japan and Australia among many others.

The final work at the exhibition, the eponymous A Heart to Heart (2025, work in progress), is a giant heart-shaped construction made of fabrics in different shades of red and pink. We are invited to walk around the work, as well as to enter it and sit on the cushions, presumably with the idea of contemplating the journey that Xiuzhen’s art has just taken us on. Despite its bright red colour and the holes where a human heart would meet the arteries, this is a work of great beauty, with little to evoke the bloody gruesomeness of an actual organ. Instead, the colourful exterior and cosy, mesmerising interior of A Heart to Heart feel more like a work of art for the Instagram generation than one that would provoke ‘deep and meaningful conversations’ that the wall label invites us to engage in. In this, too, Yin Xiuzhen’s art speaks to a global audience, erasing boundaries between East and West. 

Photograph provided by Yin Xiuzhen, International Airline. Courtesy of the
artist and Beijing Commune.

Introduction to Collecting Fabergé

Fabergé occupies a singular place in the history of the decorative arts, uniting technical brilliance, imagination, and the enduring allure of imperial Russia. While the celebrated Imperial Eggs remain its most iconic creations, the wider world of Fabergé is far richer and more varied, offering collectors an extraordinary range of objects in which artistry and craftsmanship meet. This introduction by Angie Afifi explores how Fabergé’s legacy was formed, why it continues to captivate collectors, and what makes these works so compelling today.

Text by Angie Afifi

Few names in the world of the decorative arts have the power to conjure images of opulence and refinement quite like Fabergé. For more than a century, the name has stood for luxury, innovation, and exquisite craftsmanship. Even people who are not collectors of jewelry or decorative arts are familiar with the famous Fabergé eggs created for the Russian Imperial family. But Fabergé represents much more than a handful of masterpieces. For collectors today, the world of Fabergé offers a wide field of discovery: thousands of objects ranging from jewelry and silver to miniature carvings, each reflecting the same spirit of artistry that defined the brand’s golden era.

The story begins in 1846, with the birth of Peter Carl Fabergé in St Petersburg. His father, Gustav, had founded a small jewellry firm in the city. Peter Carl trained abroad, studying in Germany, France, and England, before returning to Russia in the 1870s to take over the family business. His vision differed from many jewellers of his time. Rather than emphasizing only diamonds and precious stones, he focused on design, originality, and flawless execution. The workshop became a laboratory of creativity, employing some of the finest goldsmiths, enamelers, and stone carvers in Europe. This combination of artistry and innovation soon attracted the attention of the Russian court.

In 1885, Tsar Alexander III appointed Fabergé “Goldsmith by Special Appointment to the Imperial Crown.” That same year, the firm created its first Imperial Easter Egg, presented by the Tsar to his wife, Empress Maria Feodorovna. The white enamel egg opened to reveal a golden yolk, which in turn contained a tiny hen and a miniature crown. This playful yet exquisitely crafted object delighted the Empress and gave rise to a new tradition: each year, an Imperial egg was commissioned as an Easter gift from the Tsar to his consort, and later a second egg was made for the Dowager Empress. Over the next three decades Fabergé created about fifty Imperial Eggs, each one unique, concealing an imaginative surprise. Some marked personal moments, like the “Lilies of the Valley” egg with portraits of Nicholas II’s daughters, while others celebrated achievements of the Empire, like the ‘Trans-Siberian Railway’ egg containing a working model train. Today, fewer than fifty Imperial Eggs survive, held by museums such as the Kremlin Armoury and the Fabergé Museum in St Petersburg, the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts in Richmond, and a few private collections. Their rarity and imperial association make them legendary in the art world.

Although the eggs are Fabergé’s best-known works, they represent only a fraction of the firm’s output. The workshops produced thousands of objects for the Russian elite and an international clientele: cigarette cases, clocks, silver tableware, miniature hardstone animals, jewelry, picture frames, and religious icons. One of the firm’s signatures was its mastery of enameling. Fabergé’s craftsmen perfected guilloché enamel, applying translucent colored enamel over an engine-turned metal surface to create shimmering effects in blue, pink, green, and other shades. Another popular line was the hardstone animals: small, lifelike sculptures of dogs, cats, rabbits, elephants, and other creatures, often with tiny jeweled eyes. These pieces, both charming and finely crafted, remain highly collectible today.

Behind these creations stood not only Peter Carl Fabergé himself but also a circle of exceptional workmasters who managed the production of entire workshops. Erik Kollin (1836-1901), the first head workmaster, established the clean and elegant style of the early years and oversaw many of the firm’s initial commissions. Mikhail Perchin (1860-1903), who took over in the 1880s, brought a new level of inventiveness and was responsible for some of the earliest and most imaginative Imperial Easter Eggs, blending intricate mechanisms with rich decoration. Later, Henrik Wigström (1862-1923) carried the tradition forward, producing some of the most technically sophisticated and artistically ambitious pieces of the pre-revolutionary period. For collectors today, the marks of these workmasters are not just signatures but vital indicators of origin and authenticity. They also give each object a more personal connection to the skilled artisans who transformed Fabergé’s vision into reality.

The Russian Revolution of 1917 abruptly ended Fabergé’s golden age. The Romanov dynasty fell, the firm was nationalized, and Peter Carl Fabergé fled the country, and he died in Switzerland in 1920. Many of the firm’s treasures were sold abroad, dispersing Fabergé’s legacy into private hands and museums around the world. This dispersal also helped fuel interest among collectors in Europe and America, who were fascinated by the artistry and by the dramatic story of a vanished empire.

Collecting Fabergé today offers many pathways. Some collectors are drawn to jewellery — brooches, cufflinks, or pendants — that can still be worn and appreciated daily. Others prefer small decorative objects like enamel boxes, frames, or cigarette cases, prized for their colours and fine details. Many are charmed by the hardstone animals, which combine humor and skill in equal measure. Each type of object offers its own appeal, and together they show the extraordinary range of Fabergé’s workshops. 

Part of the appeal of collecting Fabergé lies in the personal connection it creates. To hold a Fabergé object is to connect directly with the late imperial world of Russia — a period of immense creativity and dramatic change. Every piece, no matter its size, carries this historical resonance. 

Museums today play a vital role in keeping the Fabergé tradition alive. The Fabergé Museum in St Petersburg, founded by collector Viktor Vekselberg, is one of the largest private collection of Fabergé in Russia, and they have nine of the Imperial Eggs. The Kremlin Armoury in Moscow has ten eggs, while outside Russia institutions such as the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts and the British Royal Collection have several Imperial eggs along with broad collections of works of art by Fabergé helping to make it accessible to the public. These museums not only allow collectors and enthusiasts to study authentic examples but also ensure that Fabergé remains a living tradition rather than a closed chapter of history.

Why does Fabergé remain so important today, more than a century after the fall of the Romanovs? Part of the answer lies in history: the name is inseparable from the glamour and tragedy of imperial Russia. But the deeper reason is the artistry itself. Fabergé’s craftsmen turned metal, stone, and enamel into objects that continue to captivate with their humor, refinement, and imagination. A guilloché enamel box still glows with the same iridescence; a carved jade rabbit still seems to have a spark of life in its eyes. These are not simply luxury objects, but works of art that transcend their time.

For anyone drawn to collecting Fabergé, the appeal goes far beyond beauty—each object is a tangible link to a vanished world of artistry and history. At Vickery Art Collections, Fabergé holds a special place at the heart of our Private Russian Kunstkammer, where we present a private grouping of Fabergé assembled in Europe over the past fifty years. Encompassing jewellery, silver, hardstone animals, and exquisite enamel pieces, this collection offers collectors the rare opportunity to explore Fabergé’s genius in depth and variety. It is not only a testament to the legacy of Peter Carl Fabergé and his master craftsmen, but also an invitation to enter that legacy yourself.

ARCO 45: The Future, for Now

As ARCO marks its 45th edition, the fair remains one of Europe’s most distinctive art-world gatherings: international in scope, yet unmistakably rooted in Madrid’s particular cultural rhythm. ARCO45: The Future, for Now is a fair that has evolved from a post-transition cultural project into a confident global platform, while retaining the conversational, collector-focused atmosphere that continues to set it apart.

Text by Jo Vickery

ARCO was founded in 1982 by the Spanish gallerist Juana de Aizpuru, before TEFAF and long before Frieze. If Art Basel, established a decade earlier, emerged as a gallery-driven international market fair, ARCO developed not only as a marketplace but also as a cultural project bound up with Spain’s post-dictatorship modernisation. In its early years, it introduced contemporary art to a new generation of Spanish collectors; later, as globalisation gathered pace, it evolved into a more international platform, particularly for galleries and collectors from South America. Today, almost two thirds of the galleries participating in ARCO are international, and nearly 30% of those come from South America. It is, in many ways, a remarkable success story for the Spanish art market, especially given that Spain continues to impose some of the highest taxes in Europe on art sales and imports.

ARCO has always had a wonderfully relaxed atmosphere. It is a true collectors’ fair: slower-paced, with time for unhurried conversations with artists, gallerists and curators. Yet the works on display are generally well chosen, with a strong showing of mid-career and emerging artists punctuated by international staples — among them large-scale sculptures by Jaume Plensa and Eduardo Chillida, one of which, Chillida’s Leku III (1976), was acquired by the Masaveu Foundation, as well as an outstanding still life by Giorgio Morandi from 1956, unusually large in scale, with an asking price of €3 million.

Among the works that particularly caught my attention were the textile pieces by the Portuguese octogenarian Helena Lapas at Paula Capata’s stand, their organic colours drawn from nature. For something entirely different in the same medium, Galerie Poggi was showing a thought-provoking and quintessentially text-based textile work by the Azerbaijani artist Babi Badalov (b. 1959), Your Left is my Right, in which the letter R is written in reverse, so that it points left rather than right. At the same gallery, the main focus was on the Ukrainian artist Nikita Kadan, including works previously shown by Voloshyn at Paris Basel last autumn, as well as a painting of a fallen white horse that, here in Madrid, inevitably carried loud local echoes of Picasso’s Guernica. Also engaging directly with the current war was a series of recent works by Sergei Bratkov: dark, minimalist paintings bearing provocative, fractured texts from his Important Words series, produced in 2024 and shown that same year at Kunstmuseum Magdeburg.

It was a special treat to visit the fair together with our close friends, Cuban artists Frank Mujica and Levi Orta, who are visiting Madrid this week. Artists always look at art with different eyes, focussing often more on technical elements and finding different and thought provoking parallels which bring deeper reflections in our face paced world.

SOVIET ART THROUGH WESTERN EYES: WHAT WE MISS

In this short essay, Angie Afifi unpicks the Western “script” that too often frames Soviet art as a single heroic drama of dissent—tidy, legible, and instantly marketable. Moving from Kabakov and Rabin to Zverev, Yankilevsky, and Komar & Melamid, she argues for a slower, more context-rich way of looking—one that restores ambiguity, inner life, and the complex survival strategies that shaped artistic practice under late Soviet conditions.

Text by Angie Afifi

Imagine a person who has long and genuinely been interested in Soviet art. They open a catalogue of a major Western gallery or scroll through an auction website and suddenly see works that feel so familiar to them, so recognisable in their spirit of protest. The artist here is always a rebel who hides his paintings, takes risks, and challenges the system. Every canvas necessarily carries a hidden political meaning. And the entire background surrounding these works is saturated with a sense of total unfreedom, absurdity, and pressure. Everything that does not fit into this picture either simply disappears from view or is carefully adjusted to an already prepared storyline.

And the most surprising thing is that this is not a deliberate distortion and certainly not someone’s malicious intent. People in the West often approach Soviet art with genuine curiosity, with a desire to understand it, and with sympathy for the victims of the system. But their gaze passes through a filter of expectations that have been formed over decades. Through the years of the Cold War, through old newspaper articles, through today’s media coverage, through the ways in which the market and museums construct their narratives. As a result, Soviet art does not enter a calm historical analysis but rather a prewritten script where all the roles have already been assigned and the meanings predetermined.

Yet the real lives of artists were far more complex, far more human, and far less heroic in the Hollywood sense. Most of them did not spend every day in open confrontation. They lived within the system, spoke its language, and found cracks and opportunities within it in order to remain themselves. Their freedom was more often internal. They did not so much fight against as learn how to exist within, adapting, rethinking, and using the rules of the game for their own purposes. It was precisely these intermediate spaces, these compromises, these survival strategies that made up the real fabric of artistic life, especially in the late Soviet years.

Let us take Ilya Kabakov (1933-2023), one of the figures best known in the West. His large scale installations with communal apartments, piles of old belongings, and albums where someone endlessly writes and rewrites their life are almost always explained as a direct metaphor for Soviet absurdity. The communal flat becomes a symbol of total state control, the nameless character turns into an image of an oppressed and depersonalised individual. Everything becomes immediately clear to the viewer. This is how terrible life was for them, here is proof of unfreedom. One can sigh with relief and feel on the right side of history. But if one lingers and listens to what Kabakov himself says about his works, or simply spends more time with them, another layer opens up. For him, far more important was not the critique of power as such, but the feeling of a rupture between what you actually experienced inside yourself and what was offered to you as the official version of your life. In other words, the essence is not at all about directly denouncing authority and showing how it crushes everyone, but about sharing something much closer to the heart and much more painful. Inside you there is your real life, what you truly felt, remembered, lived through, smells, conversations, moments of shame, small joys, often intimate and elusive to an outside gaze and perception. All of this is yours, real, but without a beautiful wrapper. And on the outside, throughout your life, you were offered another version, the correct and official one, a version in which you are a happy Soviet person, everything goes according to plan, you are proud, you move forward together with everyone else. This version is smooth and coherent, like in a newspaper, but it almost never coincides with what is inside you. Between these two worlds there is a huge crack. Your memory refuses to assemble itself into a single beautiful narrative, it breaks into pieces, gets confused, forgets. It is impossible to turn it into a coherent story of your fate. And it is precisely in this crack, in this impossibility of gluing everything together, that Kabakov sees the deepest truth.

A similar story unfolds with Oskar Rabin (1928-2018). On the market, his paintings are almost invariably presented as symbols of protest. Here is a man who did not break, here is his departure, here is his struggle. But at the same time, a very personal, almost intimate side of his world disappears somewhere. Religious motifs, a sense of inner detachment, a personal mythology that lived within him for years. Rabin ceases to be a living artist with a complex inner world and becomes a convenient sign of an era.

Anatoly Zverev (1931-1986) is an entirely separate legend. A wild and unrestrained genius who drinks, paints on anything that comes to hand, and lives on the very margins of society. This story is so beautiful and romantic that it almost completely obscures the painting itself. The speed of the brushstroke, the expressiveness of the line, the inner rhythm of his works recede into the background, because it is far more entertaining to retell anecdotes about his life. As a result, Zverev turns into a myth, while remaining poorly understood as an artist.

Vladimir Yankilevsky (1938-2018) also often falls into a different kind of trap. His works are often fitted into the context of Western modernism. Here are the forms, here is the structure, here it is almost like someone from Europe. But for him personally, the main thing lay elsewhere. His triptychs and spatial constructions were born from very serious existential questions about choice, responsibility, and where the human ends and the abyss begins. When this philosophical layer is removed, only a formal shell remains, beautiful but somewhat empty.

Now let us recall Komar and Melamid (b. 1943 & 1945) with their Sots Art. In the West, they are almost always perceived as witty irony directed at Soviet ideology, as light mockery of slogans and posters. The irony is indeed there, and it is sharp. But it serves as a tool rather than an end in itself. They dissected the language of power down to the bone. They showed how the same words and phrases are repeated endlessly, how through this repetition they lose meaning and turn into automatic incantations. And then the most interesting thing happens. This language no longer simply describes reality or reflects it like a mirror. It begins to create reality itself, forcing people to see the world exactly as prescribed by these ready made formulas, slogans, and clichés. When all that remains of this is simply “look how silly and ridiculous this is,” all the analytical force of their art dissolves.

Why does all of this repeat itself so persistently? In our time, art, especially when it enters the international arena, is to a large extent subject to the market, and the market loves clear and sellable stories. They reduce risk and are easy to explain to buyers and audiences. The dissident hero, suffering as proof of value, a dramatic biography that raises the price. It turns out that the more tragic the fate, the higher the symbolic capital. Complex and ambiguous things, where there is no clear moral conclusion, sell worse. They do not confirm the myth, and the myth is needed. In addition, Soviet art is often turned into exoticism, supposedly a product of a completely different civilisation with rules that cannot be translated into our language. Then there is no need to compare it with what was happening in Europe, no need to look for common roots and shared questions. It is enough to say they lived in unfreedom, and everything is explained.

It is also worth noting that history itself is reshaped to meet these expectations. The avant garde of the 1920s is recognised as a genuine breakthrough, Kazimir Malevich (1879-1935) becomes an eternal point of reference. Everything that came after is often perceived as decline or deviation. Socialist realism is seen as a solid monolith without cracks or contradictions, although it was precisely within it that complex forms of double language, hidden gestures, and compromises emerged. Moscow conceptualism is presented as a sudden explosion of freedom, as if it appeared out of nowhere rather than growing out of a long dialogue with the official visual language.

Today, as the geopolitical situation grows more tense, all of this only intensifies. The past is read through today’s conflicts, and complex human positions are simplified into black and white morality. But as long as Soviet art is viewed primarily as an illustration of a political narrative, it will continue to elude us. True value emerges when we return to context, to archives, to slow and attentive reading, to the human stories behind each painting. There are no ready made answers or simple heroes there, but there is real depth. And that is precisely why it is worth looking at it longer and more closely.

IMPRESSIONISM, REWRITTEN

Impressionism, once scandalous for its loose brushwork and daring use of light, has transformed into a cornerstone of the global art market, commanding millions and offering collectors a serene refuge of beauty. Amid this legacy, Joaquín Sorolla emerges as a radiant, Mediterranean counterpart, amplifying sunlight into a tangible, almost physical force across his canvases. The exhibition “En el mar de Sorolla con Manuel Vicent” at Palau Martorell in Barcelona invites viewers to immerse themselves in this luminous world, where painting and literature converge to celebrate the sea, memory, and human experience.

Text by Angie Afifi

Impressionism was once a challenge to academic tradition, paintings by artists of this movement seemed unfinished to the public, too loose, too daring in their handling of light and colour. Today, in 2026, everything is different. Impressionism has firmly secured its place in the top tier of the art market, global turnover exceeds $65 billion dollars, and works of this movement are perceived as a reliable asset. A large canvas by Claude Monet can cost tens of millions, and the genre as a whole looks like a quiet harbour for collectors seeking beauty rather than noise. It is escapism in oil, sunlit gardens, misty rivers, a world where that very moment is captured, the moment Impressionists so eagerly chased while working en plein air, the fleeting instant in which light prevails over everything. But there is also Joaquín Sorolla, a Spanish outsider who turned that light up to the maximum, transforming the Mediterranean into a dazzling solar symphony. He does not reach Monet’s prices, but in a nervous market his sunny optimism may turn out to be the medicine collectors need?

Born in Valencia, Joaquín Sorolla (1863-1923) was orphaned at the age of two and it seems turned to the sea as a form of salvation. His painting is built on an intense rendering of sunlight that quite literally “attacks” the viewer. The contrast between blinding whites and saturated azure tones, combined with a dynamic brushwork, creates a sense of almost material light that shapes space and the plasticity of figures. Unlike the French Impressionist haze, Sorolla’s light is tangible, and neither is it a background but an active component of the painting.

From a young age the artist was connected to the sea, and the marine landscape became not just a motif but the very artistic medium of his work. He often painted en plein air, striving to capture a living impression, fixing the movement of water, the rhythm of waves, the vibration of air. His compositions are frequently built on diagonals, which heightens the sense of motion, and the figures seem to dissolve into a luminous environment.

In this sense, his work resonates with broader European currents, including echoes in Russian art of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. One can recall Valentin Serov, who, like Sorolla, captured light in everyday scenes. Serov’s painting “Bathing of a Horse” (1905) shows horses in water with the same radiance found in Sorolla’s “Bathing of the Horse” (1909). This is not imitation but a natural convergence, both artists were influenced by Parisian Impressionism, where painters from across Europe met in salons.

It is important to emphasize that Joaquín Sorolla did not always remain within the bounds of the cloudless solar idylls for which his mature work is so famous. In his early period, especially in the 1890s, his paintings often carried a pronounced social undertone. With great empathy and attention, he depicted the hard labour of Valencian fishermen, peasants, and simple workers, exhausted, sunburnt, with calloused hands and weary faces. Works such as “And They Still Say Fish Is Expensive!” or “The Return from Fishing” show not merely people by the sea but the real cost of survival, physical exhaustion and harsh everyday reality.

At the same time, light in Sorolla’s work is not only a source of beauty or decorative effect. It becomes a powerful dramaturgical tool, sharp shadows emphasize tension in the figures, reveal the rough texture of skin, worn clothing, hot sand, or wet nets. It is precisely through the play of light and shadow that the artist conveys a sense of fatigue, the weight of labour, and human dignity under harsh conditions, qualities that bring his early works close to the approach of the Russian Peredvizhniki. Like Ilya Repin (1844-1930) or Vasily Perov (1834-1882), Sorolla during these years sought not merely to paint a beautiful scene but to tell the truth about the lives of ordinary people, showing them without embellishment yet with deep respect and humanity.

In this sense, the different approaches within Sorolla’s art are vividly illustrated by the current exhibition at Palau Martorell in Barcelona, “En el mar de Sorolla con Manuel Vicent.” Open from December 5, 2025, to April 6, 2026, the exhibition brings together the artist’s masterpieces in a dialogue between painting and literature. The Valencian writer Manuel Vicent, with his poetic and Mediterranean prose, serves as the literary curator, weaving texts that accompany the paintings. For Vicent, the sea is not merely a main character but an element that connects memories, emotions, and aesthetics. Walking through the halls of Palau Martorell, a neoclassical building whose vast skylight allows in magnificent natural light, feels like plunging into that sea. You see scenes of Valencian beaches, fishermen at sunset, children splashing in the water. Vicent’s words humanize these scenes, “The sea is a moral position,” he says, reminding us how Sorolla and he share roots in this radiant strip of coastline.

The exhibition “In Sorolla's Sea with Manuel Vicent” at Palau Martorell in Barcelona is a deep resonance between two Valencians, separated by generations yet obsessed with the same Mediterranean Sea as a space of memory and emotional truth. Vicent, through his prose, turns each gallery into a chapter of a personal novel, where the sea ceases to be a backdrop and becomes a moral witness, a refuge, and a mirror of the human condition.

One of the exhibition’s strongest aspects is its structure. Vicent has divided the eighty-six works, almost all on loan from the Museo Sorolla, currently closed for renovation, into four thematic sections that function as parts of a visual and literary symphony. “The subconscious is full of seaweed” evokes a submerged, almost dreamlike memory, where the sea becomes a repository of childhood and loss. Here shine paintings such as “Leaving the Bath,” “The Little Boat,” or “Bathing Time,” children play on the shore, absorbed in a light that penetrates skin and soul, just as it once did in Vicent’s own childhood.

This is followed by “Naturalistic Drama under the Light of the Mediterranean,” precisely the early period of Sorolla discussed above, exhausted fishermen, heavy nets, bodies burned by sun and salt, in works like “Arrival of the Boats,” “Fisherwoman with Her Son,” or “Mending the Sail.” It is a reminder that before becoming the painter of blinding optimism, Sorolla was a social chronicler with an almost Peredvizhnik-like gaze, using light not to embellish but to expose the weight of existence, sweat, fatigue, and the silent dignity of labour.

“Bourgeois Vacationers in Cabanyal” captures the emerging leisure of the Valencian middle class at the end of the nineteenth century, parasols, striped bathing costumes, family strolls, a world foreshadowing modern tourism. Vicent reads this with gentle irony, the sea as an illusory democratizer, a space where the bourgeoisie pretends to be free while fishermen continue to work behind their backs, mixing classes on the same sand under the same merciless sun.

Finally comes “At Sea in Jávea, Xàbia,” the culmination of light, views of rocky coves and turquoise waters where the sun is no longer merely illumination but an almost physical force, dissolving contours and elevating the everyday into the eternal. Vicent concludes with reflections on pleasure, beauty, and the sea as an expression of spirituality.

It is worth noting that in an era of digital noise, constant acceleration, and art market volatility, this exhibition proposes a gesture that today sounds almost subversive. It returns the viewer to slowness and attentive perception, to the possibility of looking and reading without haste and without the pressure of immediate interpretation or evaluation. In this sense, the exhibition speaks of art for art’s sake as an opportunity to pause, to be attentive, and to be free from external demands, a rare experience in the conditions of today’s cultural rhythm.