Art Worlds
Digital Art NFTs: The Marriage of Art & Money
Over half a century ago, Marshall McLuhan identified a ‘moral panic’ that continues to roil Western culture today. In his now-canonical Understanding Media (1964), McLuhan discussed the mixture of fear and snobbery exhibited by ‘many highly literate people’ in response to the dramatic rise of ‘electric technology’— the telephone, the radio and above all, the dreaded television.
Since these new media ‘seem[ed] to favor the inclusive and participational spoken word over the specialist written word,’ McLuhan argued that they posed a threat to established hierarchies of culture and class. As he pointed out, elitist systems of cultural knowledge and power extend all the way back to ancient ‘temple bureaucracies’ and ‘priestly monopolies,’ and the cultural elites have always worked to keep their domains exclusive.
A strikingly McLuhanesque spasm of outrage followed Christie’s’ procured sale of a digital art non-fungible token, or NFT. Everydays: The First 5000 Days, an NFT created by the savvy operator known as Beeple, fetched an eye-watering $69 million at a recent auction. That kind of money always guarantees mainstream media attention which, of course, is part of the point. Another part is the furiously hostile response to that kind of money being splurged on such a radically innovative art form: so innovative that a large part of the cultural elite questioned its status as art in the first place.
It doesn’t help that Beeple’s content is resolutely demotic: puerile cartoons, defaced logos, ironic emojis, frat-boy fantasies. Writing in Spike magazine, Dean Kissick remarks that ‘the old gatekeepers have been losing their power for a while now,’ and he counts the entrance of NFTs into the artworld among the costs, denigrating Beeple’s ‘triumphant procession of popular things’ as a violation of art’s privileged autonomy. In the ‘collective-hallucinatory firmament’ of postmodern hyper-reality, artists no longer express ideas but rather present empty ‘images of images,’ which Kissick defiantly dismisses as ‘tired art, recycled pop, bad taste, political spectacle, and hyper-speculation.’ As J.J. Charlesworth observes in ArtReview: ‘What really seems to disconcert ‘our’ current artworld is the sense that a form of largely unregulated, DIY mass culture has spawned beyond the reach or control of cultural gatekeepers.’
The twentieth century was replete with artists questioning the relationship between art and money. Their difference from Beeple was that they were looking for ways to uncouple the pair, rather than fuse them.
It is tempting to see the cultural gatekeepers’ protests against digital art NFTs as the grousing of a critical establishment at its own loss of influence. The snobbery of the self-appointed elect was challenged decades ago by Marcel Duchamp, in what looks like a premonitory contribution to the current NFT discourse. In his 1957 paper ‘The Creative Act,’ Duchamp rejects the elitist exclusion of ‘bad’ art: ‘art may be bad, good or indifferent, but, whatever adjective is used, we must call it art, and bad art is still art in the same way that a bad emotion is still an emotion.’ Yet Duchamp also rejected the idea of equity in artistic value: ‘Millions of artists create; only a few thousands are discussed or accepted by the spectator and many less again are consecrated by posterity.’ Three conclusions follow for our own day: (1) Everydays is indeed an artwork, (2) it has passed the approval of the spectators (buyers) by garnering such a high bid, (3) only posterity will determine its ultimate aesthetic value. Nowhere does Duchamp mention professional critics.
This omission is especially glaring since the late 1950s were the apex of critical influence on contemporary art. These were the years when a pair of New York critics—Clement Greenberg and Harold Rosenberg—wielded an almost dictatorial influence. Such critics did not just evaluate already-existing art; their pronouncements determined the forms of future works. Because the relationship between artwork and art criticism has been mutually determining for most of the twentieth century, one of Beeple’s many transgressions is his deconstruction of the polarity between the two. The media response that his oeuvre evokes is not something external to it, but one of its most vital components. The outrage increases the price, and the price is not an addition to the art but its very essence. In the form of the NFT, the ancient opposition between art and money is finally abolished. So perhaps the consequent eruption of indignation and disbelief throughout the artworld is more than defensive elitism, and there are reasons other than snobbery to be suspicious of the NFT’s fusion of aesthetics with economics.
NFTs also represent the ultimate aestheticization of exchange-value—a process on which artists and art critics have meditated for most of the last century.
Before the twentieth century it was a simple matter to own a piece of art. One simply bought it, took possession of it and, if one chose, locked it away in one’s cellar. Ownership gave exclusive rights to access the artwork (albeit not to its copyright). That changed in the age of mechanical reproduction, and by the twentieth century anyone could view the same image as the artwork’s owner photographed in a book or magazine. What ownership brought was now access to the original, the bearer of the mysterious, pseudo-scarce ‘aura’ described by Walter Benjamin.
The relationship between art and money has always been symbiotic. It has been equally true with papal patronage in sixteenth century, and with the interwar European avant-garde whose fortunes, according to Greenberg, were inexorably linked to the market ‘by an umbilical cord of gold.’ After all, art and money are basically similar phenomena: both are valuable and significant systems of symbols. The twentieth century was replete with artists questioning the relationship between art and money. Their difference from Beeple was that they were looking for ways to uncouple the pair, rather than fuse them. As early as 1914, Duchamp’s revolutionary concept of the ‘readymade’ had undermined the process of commodification that had engulfed the artworld. Along with his Dadaist allies, Duchamp succeeded in redefining the fine arts, moving away from the given of physical painting and sculpture and towards serialized, de-commodified, temporary or even traceless performances and manifestos.
By insisting that a fictitious ‘R. Mutt’ had the right to anoint a urinal as art because ‘whether Mr. Mutt with his own hands made the fountain or not has no importance. He CHOSE it,’ Duchamp initiated what the late David Graeber called the ‘aesthetic validation of managerialism.’ A lowly plumbing fixture can be art, as long as someone (who did not even create it) calls it art. The task of validation, and the creation of value, later devolved from artists to curators, who could throw ordinary objects into the mix along with bona fide artworks, confident that no one could legitimately object. Today this function falls to auction houses which, in Graeber’s words, use ‘money as a sacral grace that baptizes ordinary objects magically, turning them into a higher value.’ That is exactly what happened to Beeple’s opus on March 11, 2021 when the sale closed at $69,346,250.
Subsequent movements like Fluxus and Conceptual Art continued Duchamp’s efforts to separate art from money. Their methods included relying on performance instead of painting or drawing, and using DIY kits instead of traditional cast or carved sculpture. They documented events with sets of instructions or certificates of authenticity, and these took the place of paintings and sculpture as the physical manifestations of art that was otherwise disembodied. The remarkable Piero Manzoni created works such as Merda d’artista (Artist’s Shit, 1961), and advertised his ‘product’ by standing in a toilet with a tiny tin in his right hand and a coy smile on his face. Manzoni commented on the relations between art and money in Sculture vivendi (Living Sculptures, 1961), which consisted of living people ‘authenticated’ with different colored ink stamps designating various body parts, or the entire person, as an artwork. He incorporated cheeky pricing systems into his artworks: the price of the shit-tins corresponded to the price of gold, the color stamps on the living sculpture were priced by body part and so on. Manzoni documented his works with photographs, making the record part of the process, and proving their uniqueness, just as the blockchain records the uniqueness of the NFT today.
If aesthetics and economics are not merely analogous but actually identical, we must bid farewell to aesthetic experience itself.
At around the same time, Yves Klein was inventing, performing and documenting his transgressive classic Zone of Immaterial Pictorial Sensibility. Performed on February 10th, 1962, it involved Klein throwing half of his payment into the river Seine. The work’s buyer then burned the receipt for the transaction. This performance presaged the NFT in several respects. The artwork included the physical destruction of the artist’s remuneration, provocatively suggesting an equivalence between the two processes. As Klein gnomically explained: ‘For each zone the exact weight of pure gold which is the material value correspondent to the immaterial acquired.’ To be authentic the event had to be witnessed—Klein specified by ‘an Art Museum Director, or an Art Gallery Expert, or an Art Critic’— in a manner that anticipates the authentication provided by an NFT’s imprint in a blockchain. Klein even included a provision to prevent resale: ‘The zone[s] having been transferred in this way are not any more transferable by their owner.’
Klein had first made his point about the arbitrary value of art in 1957, when he placed eleven identical paintings in Milan’s Galleria Apollinaire. These were to be purchased at various prices, according to what the buyer felt each was worth. Thirty-five years later, the British duo K Foundation performed an artwork by burning banknotes to the value of a million pounds sterling. By the twenty-first century, when Banksy’s $1.4 million Girl with Balloon dramatically shredded itself to pieces in front of a stunned audience at Sotheby’s, and Maurizio Cattelan taped a perishable fruit to the wall at Art Basel, the venerable system of exchanging enduring artworks for money had been thoroughly and irretrievably deconstructed in theory. It continued to flourish in practice, however, and it blooms anew in the parodic form of the NFT.
The confusion and scorn with which the general public has responded to the sale is no mere backwoods Luddism. It may be true, as the influential dealer and gallery owner Stefan Simchowitz recently pointed out in a Clubhouse chatroom, that NFTs are just another commercial platform based on a new technology. But they also represent the ultimate aestheticization of exchange-value—a process on which artists and art critics have meditated for most of the last century. NFTs are the apotheosis of the tendency described in Guy Debord’s 1967 book The Society of the Spectacle, whereby alienated human labor-power attains an autonomous, performative force by taking a symbolic form. Debord had nothing but scorn for the society of the spectacle, but it would surely be rash to dismiss his prophetic diatribe as cultural elitism.
The real ethical objection to the rise of NFTs involves the elimination of aesthetics itself as a discrete sphere of human experience.
NFTs’ dramatic entrance into the art market announces another stage in this process. It is not access to the artwork that has been sold: anyone with an internet connection can view the content, which has in any case been dismissed by Beeple himself as ‘trash.’ And there is no ‘original’ to which the owner might enjoy exclusive access. What the NFT’s purchaser has bought is not the image itself, or even the copyright to the image, but ownership of the image. Furthermore, this ownership is entirely conceptual or, if you prefer, financial. It does not consist in exclusive rights to view the image; it consists in exclusive rights to sell the image. Ownership of art has become identical with art per se, just as an artwork’s price has become part of its essence. Art has become money, it has turned into currency. The real ethical objection to the rise of NFTs involves the elimination of aesthetics itself as a discrete sphere of human experience.
This erosion of the border between aesthetics and economics is also visible in the financial sphere, where most value now takes the form of ‘derivatives,’ a hyper-symbolic mode of representation whose manipulation for profit looks more like artistic than economic activity as traditionally understood. Meanwhile, artists like Beeple assimilate the market dynamics which give their work value into their art itself. He is a true heir of Kaws, whose current retrospective at the Brooklyn museum was characterized by the New Yorker’s Peter Schjeldahl as ‘a cheeky, infectious dumbing-down of taste’ where ‘blandness reigns.’ The content of Beeple’s work is unimportant. Its images are self-consciously banal, proudly lowbrow, deliberately jejune. But it is not images that Beeple is selling. They’re not even what he’s creating. What he’s creating, what he’s selling, is ownership: financial value. The advent of the NFT renders the distinction between art and money obsolete.
Does McLuhan’s dismissal of the mid-century cultural elite and their suspicion of the new media as a ‘moral panic’ apply to the widespread critical suspicion of NFTs in our own day? There is surely an element of elitism, and even envy, behind the cultural gatekeepers’ dismay at Beeple’s success. But that does not mean there are no reasonable or ethical objections to the NFT’s forced union of art and money. If aesthetics and economics are not merely analogous but actually identical, we must bid farewell to aesthetic experience itself. Art will no longer be even theoretically autonomous of the market. There will be no sphere of experience that can meaningfully be separated from finance. The prospect of Beeple’s $69 million will undoubtedly encourage many to tie the knot (as evidenced by the upcoming Sotheby’s and Phillips auctions entirely dedicated to digital art NFTs), but the marriage of art and money may well turn out to be fraught, fractious and ultimately unfeasible. And divorce is always expensive.