The echo of invisible hands: when a collection becomes a language
On November 15, 2009, in a Christie’s auction room in Paris, a near-religious silence precedes the bidding. On the podium, a small bronze by Brancusi, Sleeping Muse, awaits its new owner. But it isn’t the work alone that captivates the audience—it’s the story it carries. It once belonged to the coll
By Artedusa
••12 min read
The echo of invisible hands: when a collection becomes a language
On November 15, 2009, in a Christie’s auction room in Paris, a near-religious silence precedes the bidding. On the podium, a small bronze by Brancusi, Sleeping Muse, awaits its new owner. But it isn’t the work alone that captivates the audience—it’s the story it carries. It once belonged to the collection of Yves Saint Laurent and Pierre Bergé, a thematic ensemble where each piece, from the Chinese lacquered screen to the Mondrian canvases, told of an obsession: the harmony between art and life. When the hammer falls at 27.5 million euros, it isn’t just a sculpture changing hands, but a fragment of a larger narrative, a collection that, through its coherence, transcended the sum of its parts.
Because collecting isn’t about accumulating. It’s about choosing, connecting, giving meaning. It’s about transforming a series of objects into a secret language, where each acquisition becomes a syllable, each theme a sentence. But how does one move from impulsive buying to creating an ensemble that resonates like a work in itself? How does one avoid the pitfall of clutter to achieve that rare alchemy where each piece seems to have always belonged to a whole?
The cabinets of curiosities: the art of making sense of chaos
Imagine a seventeenth-century room, its walls lined with overloaded shelves. Here, a human skull sits beside a unicorn’s horn (in reality, a narwhal tusk); there, a Flemish painting converses with an exotic herbarium. The Wunderkammern, these cabinets of curiosities, were the first laboratories of thematic collecting. Their principle? Gathering disparate objects under a common banner—nature, exoticism, science—to extract a higher meaning.
Take the studiolo of Francesco I de’ Medici in Florence. In this room of barely ten square meters, the duke orchestrated a visual symphony around the four elements. Vasari’s allegorical paintings, gems, scientific instruments, and mechanical automata form a microcosm where each object, though different, participates in the same quest: to unravel the mysteries of the universe. What strikes one is the rigor of the concept. No randomness, no filler. Each piece was chosen for its ability to reinforce the narrative.
Today, this approach resonates more than ever. In a world saturated with images and objects, thematic collecting acts as a filter. It allows us to distinguish signal from noise. But beware: a theme, however seductive, is not enough. It must be embodied, carried by choices that surprise as much as they convince. As Peggy Guggenheim once said, "I didn’t collect art, I collected lives." And that’s where everything comes into play.
Choosing the theme: between passion and strategy
One autumn morning in Paris, in a Marais apartment, the walls are covered with portraits of women. Not just any women: faces with expressions both enigmatic and intimate, painted by artists like Alice Neel, Marlene Dumas, or Julie Curtiss. "I started with a Neel drawing, then realized I only wanted works where the women look at the viewer—or ignore them magnificently," explains the collector, a discreet gallery owner who has made this theme her guiding thread.
Her case illustrates a fundamental truth: the best theme is the one that haunts you. Whether it’s "melancholy in art" (with works by Gerhard Richter, Felix Gonzalez-Torres, or even a landscape by Caspar David Friedrich), "gold in art" (from Klimt to Anish Kapoor), or "the representation of labor" (from Millet’s prints to Walker Evans’s photographs), what matters is that the subject speaks to you to the point of becoming an obsession.
But an obsession, to be transformed into a collection, must be disciplined. Take the example of the "Blue" collection by Parisian gallerist Kamel Mennour. Over twenty years, he has assembled works where this color dominates, from Yves Klein to David Hockney, including thirteenth-century Persian ceramics. "Blue is both the sky, the sea, the divine, and melancholy. It’s a color that contains all contradictions," he explains. His secret? A simple rule: "Each new acquisition must either deepen the theme or contradict it in a stimulating way."
For that is where the art of thematic collecting lies: in the balance between fidelity to an axis and openness to surprises. A theme that’s too broad ("abstract art") becomes a catch-all; one that’s too narrow ("cats in eighteenth-century Japanese art") risks trapping you. The ideal? A subject that offers enough latitude to evolve, but enough constraints to create a strong identity.
The alchemy of materials: when works enter into dialogue
In a New York loft, a Mark Rothko canvas converses with a glass sculpture by Dale Chihuly. At first glance, everything opposes them: one works with light through layers of paint, the other through the transparency of blown glass. Yet something unites them. "Both capture light as living matter," explains the collector, a former architect. "Rothko makes it vibrate, Chihuly makes it dance. Together, they create a tension between the ephemeral and the eternal."
This ability of works to resonate, even when they differ in nature, is one of the most subtle joys of thematic collecting. But for a dialogue to emerge, one must pay attention to materials, textures, and scales.
Take the "Earth" collection at the Cartier Foundation. It includes paintings by Miquel Barceló, ceramics by Theaster Gates, and installations by Giuseppe Penone. Despite their differences, all these works share a sensuality of matter: clay, dust, mud. "Earth is both what carries us and what engulfs us," explains the exhibition curator. "By choosing works that explore this duality, we create an immersive experience."
To achieve this at home, a few simple principles:
Play with texture contrasts: A smooth Pierre Soulages canvas next to a rough Louise Bourgeois sculpture creates tactile tension.
Harmonize palettes: Even if the media differ, a coherent color range (earth tones, deep blues, blacks and whites) unifies the ensemble.
Vary scales: A small Paul Klee watercolor can find its place next to a large Joan Mitchell canvas, provided their energies respond to each other.
The goal isn’t to create a uniform ensemble, but a conversation where each work brings its unique voice.
The art market: when coherence becomes a financial asset
In 2015, an auction at Sotheby’s in New York caused a sensation. Not because of a record—though prices reached dizzying heights—but because of how the works were presented. The "Looking Forward" collection brought together pieces by contemporary artists like Julie Mehretu, Mark Bradford, and Kara Walker, all linked by a theme: "the representation of American history through the lens of minorities." The result? Bids exceeded estimates by 30 to 50 percent.
What happened that evening was the demonstration of a simple principle: a well-constructed thematic collection sells better than a disparate ensemble. "Buyers no longer want just a work, they want a story," explains a Christie’s expert. "A Basquiat canvas bought alone has value. The same canvas, integrated into a collection on 'art and the street,' gains even more."
Examples abound:
The "Women Artists" collection by the Rubell family saw the value of its works increase by 40 percent in five years, thanks to the theme’s media coverage.
Warhol’s Campbell’s Soup Cans, sold as a set in 2022 for $17 million, reached that price because they formed a coherent series, not a random accumulation.
Cindy Sherman’s photographs, presented as an exploration of "female identity," now sell for 20 percent more than individual prints.
But beware: thematizing a collection for purely financial reasons is a mistake. "The market senses opportunism," warns a Parisian gallerist. "If your theme rings false, the works will lose value in the long run." The key? Choose a subject that truly moves you, then document it rigorously. Provenance, certificates, past exhibitions—every detail counts in transforming a collection into a desirable ensemble.
The exhibition: when the collection becomes a public narrative
In a former factory in Paris’s 13th arrondissement, the white walls are covered with works that seem to breathe together. Here, a Jean-Michel Basquiat canvas sits beside a David Hammons installation; a Carrie Mae Weems photograph dialogues with a Simone Leigh sculpture. "Black is the color," announces the exhibition title. The theme? "The representation of blackness in contemporary art, between identity, politics, and poetry."
What strikes one is how the works, though very different, form an organic whole. "A thematic collection only makes full sense when it’s exhibited," explains the curator, a former gallerist. "At home, you live with the works. In a public space, you offer them to others’ gaze—and that’s where the narrative takes on its full power."
But exhibiting a collection isn’t just about hanging paintings. It’s about creating an experience. A few tips for achieving this:
The narrative path: Like in a novel, each room should advance the story. For example, a collection on "water in art" could begin with classical landscapes (Turner, Monet), then evolve toward more conceptual works (Roni Horn, Olafur Eliasson).
Lighting: Harsh light kills nuances. Prefer directional spots for paintings, soft light for sculptures.
Labels: Avoid overly technical texts. A label should entice, not overwhelm. "This Joan Mitchell canvas captures the energy of a storm over Lake Michigan" is more evocative than "Lyrical abstraction, 1957, oil on canvas."
And if you don’t have the means for a physical exhibition? Digital platforms offer alternatives. "Google Arts & Culture allows you to create museum-quality virtual exhibitions," explains a collector. "And NFTs open unprecedented possibilities: imagine a collection on 'memory' where each work is linked to a digital archive."
Pitfalls to avoid: when the collection becomes a prison
In a Haussmannian apartment in Paris’s 7th arrondissement, the walls are covered with abstract canvases. "I wanted to create a collection on 'light,'" explains the owner, a retired lawyer. "But over the years, I realized I had trapped myself. Every new acquisition had to fit this framework. As a result, I missed out on works that moved me, simply because they didn’t match my theme."
His mistake? Confusing rigor with rigidity. A thematic collection should be a guide, not a straitjacket. Here are some pitfalls to avoid:
Dogmatism: A theme isn’t a religion. If a work moves you, even if it doesn’t fit your framework, buy it. "The most beautiful collections are those that know how to reinvent themselves," reminds a gallerist.
Trend-chasing: NFTs, ecological art, "Instagrammable" works—the trends pass. "A collection must outlast its time," warns an expert.
Overbidding: Wanting to complete a series at all costs can lead to impulsive purchases. "Better a collection of ten exceptional pieces than a hundred mediocre ones," advises an auctioneer.
And then there’s the most insidious trap: that of the collection as mere decoration. "A work of art isn’t a designer cushion," scoffs a museum curator. "It should question you, disturb you sometimes. Otherwise, what’s the point?"
The legacy: when the collection becomes a testament
In 2018, the sale of the Rockefeller collection at Christie’s broke all records: $835 million for 1,500 works. But beyond the figures, what struck people was how this collection told a life. "Each piece reflected David Rockefeller’s passions: Impressionist art, of course, but also American landscapes and pre-Columbian objects," explains an art historian. "It was like a three-dimensional self-portrait."
Because at its peak, a collection becomes much more than a set of objects. It becomes a testament, a trace left in time. Some choose to bequeath their works to museums (like Peggy Guggenheim in Venice), others organize posthumous sales (like Yves Saint Laurent). But all share the same ambition: that their collection continues to speak long after they’re gone.
So how does one prepare this legacy?
Document: A catalog raisonné, photos of the works in context, exhibition archives—all this adds value.
Think about transmission: A thematic collection is easier to bequeath than a disparate ensemble. "My children know I collect 'hands in art,'" explains an enthusiast. "They won’t have to guess my tastes."
Consider lending: Lending works to museums (as the Pinault collection does) allows them to live on while maintaining control.
And if your collection is too modest for a museum? No matter. "A collection is first and foremost a love story," reminds a gallerist. "And love stories aren’t measured in square meters."
Epilogue: collecting as an act of resistance
In a world where everything accelerates, where trends are born and die within months, collecting is an almost subversive act. It’s choosing to take one’s time. To dig a furrow. To say: "This is what matters to me."
Perhaps that’s why the most beautiful collections are often those that seem the most personal. That of the gallery owner who only collects works depicting "women reading." That of the architect who’s only interested in "ancient maps." That of the writer who gathers "portraits of strangers" because, he says, "every face tells a story no one has written."
Because ultimately, a thematic collection is nothing more than a three-dimensional autobiography. A silent language that says: "Here’s what I’ve seen. Here’s what moved me. Here’s what I want to leave behind."
So where to begin? Perhaps simply by asking yourself: "What story do I want to tell?" The rest will follow.
The echo of invisible hands: when a collection becomes a language | Buying Guide
