Art for Art’s Sake?

At the MoMA, modern art is colorful; it is bleak; it is textured; and it is everything. A Hanes white T-shirt boasts a central spot on one wall, while a Google Maps pin is on display a few feet over. Visitors scrutinize the objects with keen and inspired eyes. They may have overlooked these objects in their dresser or phone screens, but here, these pieces seem so foreign and exciting. 

What is it that makes a white T-shirt an artistic thinkpiece? Perhaps it is the idea that this T-shirt is universal or the fact that it is so uninspiring. Or, possibly, it is because the spectator can decide what the piece represents to them in the same way that I am spewing my own meaning into the piece. When art does not assert a distinct aesthetic value, it becomes equivocal, sometimes to an extreme and disconcerting degree. As such, the impact of the art can suffer when it relies overtly on explanation.

The T-shirt, a 1910s gift from the manufacturer, does have a message. On MoMA’s website, an audio file relays labor activist Kalpona Akter’s account of the poor working conditions and unlivable wages in Bangladesh that pertained to the shirt’s production. Upon listening, the spectator may start to see beyond the white cotton and into this nightmare scene in Bangladesh. But it took an internet search and a three-minute listen to reach this understanding, and the next visitor might not care enough to dive so deep. As an outsider, I might argue that the T-shirt’s simplicity drives curiosity, propelling the message in the work and thus making it art. As someone who appreciates art for its beauty and character, however, I wish that the piece could stand entirely alone and still bear the same message. 

Oscar Wilde’s assertion in the preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray that “All art is at once surface and symbol” is relevant here. Art embodies both its physical form and its symbolic content. Problematic modern works often neglect this dual quality: Rothko’s T-shirt has symbol but lacks surface; social media fad art can have surface but often lacks an apparent symbol; sometimes, works seem to have neither.

 I recognize that it is not possible for art to be devoid of symbol—symbol is present even without being expressly stated. It can come from the artwork’s surface, from its context, from the artist, or from the spectator. But while I do not disregard symbol in art, I believe that the aesthetic surface of art often must take precedence over its symbolic meaning, with the latter frequently deriving its meaning from the visual qualities of the work. 

This view closely aligns with the Aesthetic Movement of the late 1800s, during which Wilde lived. Characterizing beauty as an intrinsic value of art, aestheticism suggested that visual appeal alone determined an artwork’s significance. With aestheticism promoting “art for art’s sake,” even art that lacked an explicit purpose or message could still be appreciated for its beauty. 

Thus, controversial art like social media fads, which may lack substantive depth, can be viewed from a different angle; the artwork’s ability to resonate aesthetically and provoke thought should be considered an important metric of value, irrespective of the artist’s intent. Conversely, didactic art that lacks aesthetic appeal might struggle to engage audiences in a meaningful way. 

Take Mark Rothko’s Untitled 1969-70 on the fourth floor of the MoMA. A part of his Black on Gray series, the square canvas is halved horizontally with black paint on the top and a smudgy gray on the bottom. The piece’s description explains that “Rothko believed that the pure pictorial properties of abstract art could communicate universal truths about the human condition.” It continues on to assert that he aimed to eliminate “all obstacles between the painter and the idea and the idea and the observer.” Rothko’s personal experience and passion may have informed his own creation of the work, but from my perspective as a spectator, the piece is uninspiring. Simplicity can be beautiful, but the art ultimately just feels drab. And though I enjoyed the drama and the somber tones, it feels like a stretch to say the two colors on the canvas speak for the human condition. Despite the deep intentions behind the piece, the execution feels too contrived to be on display.

This is not to generalize or discredit all modern art. Kazuo Shiraga’s Untitled 1964 on the same floor as the Rothko is similarly nonrepresentational, but it has more emotional impact because of its texture, motion, and saturation. Even without having read the description, I still feel like I have understood some aspect of the art.

Even if an artist inserts a message into their work, the art itself is the vessel for meaning. The spectator is the interpreter. As a result, there is a perpetual tension between the artist and the viewer, even if the art itself remains stagnant. Pushing this idea even further, I would argue that the artist’s intent bears little worth at all because having a singular meaning in a work contradicts the idea that art can be universally understood. Perhaps the symbol only ever belongs to the beholder.

The act of seeing and processing art for oneself is deeply personal. Individual perception of the world, and thus of art, is informed by popular culture, lived experience, and exposure to other perspectives. In this sense, art in the eyes of the viewer still encompasses the world of the artist, even if it does not exactly simulate it. However, it is ultimately the viewer’s perception that breathes life into the piece. As an expressive form, art is always changing. There is value in seeing new ways in which people can incarnate how they see the world. But even as the definition of art expands into new realms, experimentation should not jeopardize the standalone, accessible character in a work of art.