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A SHORT ARTICLE ON PHILOSOPHY & THE ARTS
What Makes a Work of Art, Actually Art?
The most natural, intuitive, and legitimate question that crosses our minds when we encounter a piece of art is: “What makes this art?” You might feel the same way I do when standing in front of an uninspired, dull piece, wondering, “Is this really art?”
The most natural, intuitive, and legitimate question that crosses our minds when we encounter a piece of art is: “What makes this art?” You might feel the same way I do when standing in front of an uninspired, dull piece, wondering, “Is this really art?” If I truly dislike it, my instinctive answer is a straight no. But oddly enough, the same question arises when I’m in front of an extraordinary work—“What makes this incredible piece, art?” It’s a question so common and valuable that everyone in the art world is searching for an answer. Desperately.
If you’re wondering who’s actually in charge of solving this puzzle, I can tell you—it’s not the artists, nor the art dealers, nor the curators. The task falls to philosophers. There’s a branch of philosophy called Aesthetics, though it doesn’t quite study aesthetic vibes or the hashtag aesthetically pleasing. Instead, it deals with sensuous experiences of objects—what makes something beautiful, ugly, or disgusting? What defines the sublime? Within Aesthetics, there’s a sub-branch called the Philosophy of Art. The distinction between the two is simple: many things are beautiful, but not everything beautiful is a work of art. In other words, Aesthetics studies the concept of beauty, while the Philosophy of Art is limited to, well, art.
Let’s be clear—the Philosophy of Art is neither art criticism nor art history. It doesn’t concern itself with what is seen, heard, or read but rather with what is experienced. I’d say the closest discipline to this is psychology, but the difference is that philosophers ask conceptual and normative questions—What is art? What makes something beautiful? What is artistic value? Should art have a purpose? Does it require interpretation? Meanwhile, psychologists study how people react to art, using empirical methods to analyse cognitive responses.
Now that we know who’s in charge of telling us what makes a work actually art, we also know who to blame. The problem? Philosophers still haven’t settled on the matter. The best you’ll get is a well-rehearsed it depends. And if I’m being honest, the debate within academic philosophy has been circling itself for decades, leading nowhere. But guess what? I’m a philosopher of art. And with the authority that title grants me, I’m going to do something my colleagues hesitate to do—I’m going to start giving you some answers.
There are two possible roads we can take in answering what makes a work art. To make them clearer and truly show you how they work, I’ll use a portrait by Gustav Klimt as an example. Here’s the upper part of Amalie Zuckerkandl, painted between 1913 and 1914:
If you ask me what makes this (just this half) a work of art, I’d tell you to look at how Klimt meticulously brings out the contrast between Amalie’s face, her dark brown—almost black—hair, and her white and black collar, which is remarkably sophisticated. If you focus on the head and neck, you’ll see that the brownish colour of the hair pushes forward, whereas the white over the black in the neck helps to push backwards, leaving the pink, white, blue, and green composition of the face to float in the middle—it gains absolute protagonism. It’s a masterful balance between warm and cool colours, don’t you think?
At the same time, the proportion of the forms evokes an almost desperate sense of realism—most evident in the mouth, eyes, and nose. And then, there’s the raised eyebrow. That subtle shift in position brings her to life, giving Amalie a gaze that feels human, expressive, and present.
Now, you might think this sounds a lot like what an art critic would say—and you’d be right. The difference is that an art critic identifies unique elements in each painting. And yet, every painting is different. That’s why when you ask them what all works of art have in common (that is, what makes them art), they have no clue. Philosophers, on the other hand, go beyond individual works and, thus, can arrive at universals. But before I give you a concrete answer, let us analyse the other part of Klimt’s portrait:
If you’re wondering whether it’s unfinished or intentionally left that way, the answer is simple—it’s unfinished. Klimt wasn’t the kind of conceptual artist who played mind games, at least not in this way.
Amalie was the daughter of Viennese writer and playwright Sigmund Schlesinger. She was married to the surgeon Dr. Otto Zuckerkandl, and it is likely that Otto’s brother, who was the connection to Klimt, facilitated the commission of the portrait in 1913–1914. During those years, Klimt worked to perfection and essentially finished Amalie’s face and shoulders, which are visible today. However, as the dates hint, the First World War broke out. Amalie and Otto moved to Lviv, where she volunteered as a nurse while he worked as a doctor. Amalie survived the First World War, but it was not the case for the Second. The National Socialists arrested her under the Nuremberg Racial Laws, and because she was Jewish, she and her daughter were murdered in the Bełżec concentration camp in Poland. The portrait remained unfinished.
The artistry with which the finished part of the portrait is painted already makes the aesthetic experience outstanding. However, the historical context of the murder of Amalie for being Jewish and its unfinished state makes this piece particularly special. Could we claim that the aesthetic experience is the same before and after the context is provided? Clearly not. While the factual information might have a positive or negative effect, its impact is undeniable.
Back to the question, what makes Klimt’s portrait of Amalie art? Better yet, what makes any artwork art? If you think I’m about to give you an obscure revelation only accessible to specialists, don’t worry, I’m not. It’s pretty straightforward: as I said, you have two roads to choose from.
The first is technique and composition. That’s it. Nothing more. Technique means the specific methods, skills, and processes an artist uses to create a work. It encompasses the physical execution of an artwork, including the way materials are handled and applied. Composition is about forms and colours, along with other elements like lines, texture, space, and balance. If you are wondering how one could distinguish an artwork from an attempt at an artwork based on this, it’s very easy. In fact, you already do it. If you see a Da Vinci and you see a two-year-old’s drawing, you can easily tell how complex and exquisitely executed one is versus the other, and thus, with a rapid analysis—even if very basic—of the technique and forms, you can conclude that one is an artwork and the other is not. Well, that same model applies to all scales. All you need is to educate the eye, maybe watch some videos or read a couple of books, and you’ll be on the right track.
The second answer adds another element: context. As seen with Amalie, the factual information of her being murdered and the painting never being finished is indeed very relevant. It might be the reason why it sits in the Belvedere Museum in Vienna—and not just because of the beautifully finished part. If you decide to take this road, whenever you wonder what makes this or that work art, you’ll have to analyse the technique and composition but also read the white card next to the piece and understand what is going on with the work. Instead of analysing the Mona Lisa as a physical object made with a specific technique, colours, and forms, you’ll be thinking of how Leonardo dissected bodies to learn about the muscles and actually be able to represent a face that has become the most famous painting in the world.
It is up to you to choose what road to take, but note that in any case, you’ll have to defend it well. Whether you are a formalist or a contextualist, the question of what makes a work of art actually art will always be there—but now you know what the answer is, you just have to show it. The experience of art is like any other activity in that the more you encounter it, the more you learn from it. And the more you learn, the easier it will become to identify what makes a work of art actually art.
By Carlos M. Suárez Tavernier