Imagine walking into a high-end boutique, but instead of a price tag, you're met with a subtle, almost condescending, assessment of your worthiness to even own something. That's the art world. It's a place where buying isn't buying; it's 'acquiring,' and the difference is everything.
Years ago, I found myself at a wedding in the picturesque Cotswolds, seated beside a celebrated artist whose work I frankly detested. As a fledgling art dealer, I was starstruck, but with a hesitant awe, like encountering a disgraced politician—impressed, yet unsure if I should be.
He recounted the tale of a colossal installation he'd created, sold to a ridiculously wealthy collector. This piece eventually found its home on the collector’s private island, showcased in a gallery built specifically for it. On the grand opening night, mingling with the titans of finance – hedge fund managers, arms dealers, and oil executives, the sort who casually own art islands – the artist confessed to a sudden, sharp pang of insecurity. He felt like a small boy again, presenting his finger paintings to his parents' sophisticated, impossibly important friends. It was the adult equivalent of seeking validation for a particularly praiseworthy childhood creation.
The art world's relationship with money is…complicated. There are many factors at play, but I believe it stems from that feeling of childhood creativity the artist described. Art is something we all engage in as children; it feels inherently shared. But then, it's formalized and commodified, first by art schools and then by the market itself. (This might explain why people are so quick to criticize conceptual or performance art – forms that don't easily fit into the categories of painting, drawing, or sculpture that we associate with childhood art.) Nostalgia plays a role, but it's not the whole story.
Walk into most commercial galleries, and you'll notice something glaringly absent: prices. Even those little red dots indicating a piece has been sold are often banished. (I remember when I opened my gallery, my father proudly presented me with a sheet of red dots. They're still tucked away in my desk drawer, unused.) In fact, the very absence of prices can be a gauge of a gallery's seriousness: if prices are prominently displayed, you might be in the wrong establishment.
In New York City, displaying prices has been mandatory for galleries since the early 1970s. But visit a gallery in Chelsea or the Upper East Side today, and you'll likely find not a single dollar sign in sight (unless, ironically, it's a Warhol painting of a dollar sign). This is deliberate. To learn the price, you're forced to engage with a member of the staff. But here's where it gets controversial: this staff member almost certainly won't give you a straight answer. Instead, your information will be discreetly passed to a sales associate. This associate will then meticulously vet you, cross-referencing your details against the gallery's database and the holy trinity of Google, Instagram, and X (formerly Twitter). Only then will they cautiously email you, perhaps with something like, “We are thrilled to hear you're interested in A. N. Artist's work. Could you tell me a little about how their practice fits in with the rest of your collection?”
There might be several more layers of interrogation before you finally learn the price – and before the gallery decides whether it will even deign to sell you the artwork. If this sounds like snobbery, that's because it is. The art world cultivates snobbery (often disguised as “taste”) to elevate itself above mere luxury goods or decorative assets.
After all, this isn’t retail; this is culture. And nothing reinforces that notion quite like having to prove your worthiness as a collector to a twenty-something art history graduate. Just because you're wealthy doesn't automatically grant you access. This attitude is also reflected in the art world’s unique vocabulary: we “acquire” art instead of “buying” it. The language is designed to elevate the purchase – sorry, acquisition – so you don't dwell on the underlying financial transaction. And this is the part most people miss: this carefully crafted facade is in stark contrast to how dealers often discuss their wares behind closed doors, where masterpieces are routinely referred to as “inventory” or even simply as “kit.” (The art world operates very much on an upstairs-downstairs dynamic.)
There are times, however, when this politesse is abandoned. At art fairs, if a piece sells on a particular day, the gallery will often remove it overnight, swiftly replacing it with another. At Frieze London, I overheard a collector remarking on the ubiquity of a particularly popular artist: “They're, like, everywhere. They swap them out like football substitutes.”
This elaborate dance around price tags can be confusing for collectors. Yet, it's crucial to understand one fundamental distinction. As Damien Hirst once astutely observed, “art is about life and the art world is about money.” Those who genuinely love art forget this at their peril.
Orlando Whitfield is a failed art dealer and the author of ‘All That Glitters: A Story of Friendship, Fraud and Fine Art’ (Profile).
So, what do you think? Is the art world's snobbery justified as a means of preserving artistic integrity, or is it simply an elitist barrier to entry? Is it actually *wrong to think of art as an investment or a commodity? I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments below.*
