The secret alchemy: When a work of art is born from your desire
The golden light of an autumn afternoon filters through the tall windows of Jean-Michel Othoniel’s Parisian studio. On a marble table, still-warm blown glass beads wait to be strung like pearls for a mysterious client. She had asked for a piece that would "capture the ephemeral like a stolen kiss"—a
By Artedusa
••8 min read
The secret alchemy: when a work of art is born from your desire
The golden light of an autumn afternoon filters through the tall windows of Jean-Michel Othoniel’s Parisian studio. On a marble table, still-warm blown glass beads wait to be strung like pearls for a mysterious client. She had asked for a piece that would "capture the ephemeral like a stolen kiss"—a commission so poetic it made the artist hesitate before accepting. Because commissioning a custom work is far more than a purchase: it is a dance between two imaginations, a pact where the collector’s desire meets the artist’s obsession. And sometimes, as with The Picture of Dorian Gray or Monet’s Water Lilies, this encounter gives birth to masterpieces that surpass their own creators.
The first glance: when the artist becomes an accomplice
There is a moment, fleeting and decisive, when everything shifts. The instant the artist’s eyes land on the space that will house their work, or on the face of the one who will commission it. For the sculptor Alberto Giacometti, this came in 1954, when he met the American collector Gordon Bunshaft. The latter wanted a sculpture for the entrance hall of his New York home. Giacometti, accustomed to abstract commissions, simply asked: "Show me where it will go." Bunshaft presented him with a narrow space between two columns. Without a word, Giacometti took out a sketchbook and drew a tall, almost ghostly silhouette. "This will be The Walking Man II," he murmured. The two-meter-tall sculpture always seemed on the verge of escaping its pedestal, as if the space itself had inspired it.
This initial complicity is crucial. Some artists refuse commissions that are too precise—like Francis Bacon, who hated being told what to paint. Others, like Yayoi Kusama, transform every request into an exploration of their own universe. When a gallery commissioned her for an installation in Venice, she proposed Narcissus Garden, a sea of mirrored balls reflecting the visitors. "I wanted people to see their own vanity," she explained. The commission had become a pretext for a meditation on ego, far removed from mere decoration.
The invisible contract: what collectors don’t see
Behind every custom work lies a document often more prosaic than poetic: the contract. Yet these few pages reveal much about the power dynamics between artists and patrons. In 1485, Leonardo da Vinci’s contract for The Virgin of the Rocks specified that the artist must use "the finest azure and gold pigments," and that the painting would be delivered "within twenty-four months." Failure to comply could result in penalties—or worse, the seizure of the artist’s property. Today’s contracts are just as precise, though their stakes have evolved.
Take Jeff Koons and his Balloon Dog. When a collector commissions a version of this sculpture, they sign a document stipulating not only the price (several million dollars) but also exhibition rights, transport conditions, and even the exact shade of the polished mirror. Koons, who never touches his works (they are fabricated by a team of technicians), imposes strict clauses: no modifications, mandatory climate-controlled display. "It’s like ordering a Ferrari," explains a gallerist. "You can’t decide to repaint it pink."
Yet some contracts tell far more intimate stories. When Frida Kahlo painted Portrait of Luther Burbank in 1931, she agreed to depict the famous horticulturist as a hybrid tree, half-human, half-vegetal. The handwritten contract specified that the painting would be delivered "when the roots have grown enough." A poetic metaphor for a creative deadline.
The studio as laboratory: when the material resists
There is something magical about stepping into an artist’s studio in the throes of creation. The scent of turpentine in Lucian Freud’s workspace, the sound of hammers in Louise Bourgeois’s, the marble dust in Michelangelo’s—each studio has its own sensory language. And it is here, amid failed sketches and raw materials, that custom works are born.
For the 16th-century ceramist Bernard Palissy, every commission was an ordeal. His famous "rustic figulines"—earthenware platters depicting reptiles and crustaceans—required months of labor. One day, a nobleman ordered a basin adorned with frogs and lizards. Palissy, a perfectionist, spent weeks modeling every scale, every leaf vein. When he fired the piece, the clay exploded from the heat. He started over. Three times. Today, his works are worth fortunes, but at the time, his clients threatened to withhold payment.
Contemporary artists face their own challenges. When Anish Kapoor was commissioned to create Cloud Gate for Chicago, he had to invent a new polishing technique to achieve the perfect mirror that reflects the sky. "The problem was the welding," he recalls. "We had to develop a process so the seams between the stainless steel plates would disappear completely." The result: a sculpture that seems to float, like a giant drop of mercury.
Expectations and their pitfalls: when the dream outstrips reality
Sometimes, the perfect commission turns into a nightmare. In 1992, collector Charles Saatchi asked Damien Hirst to create a work for his "Young British Artists" exhibition. Hirst proposed The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living—a tiger shark preserved in formaldehyde. Saatchi, enthusiastic, wrote a check for £50,000. But when the shark began to decompose, Hirst had to replace it. "It was like ordering a portrait and receiving a ghost," the gallerist later joked.
Misunderstandings are common. A client once asked David Hockney for a painting of his swimming pool. The artist, inspired by the water’s reflections, painted A Bigger Splash—a canvas where the pool is empty, disturbed only by the impact of an invisible dive. The patron, disappointed, had wanted a scene of bathers. Hockney refused to alter his work. "A commission isn’t a menu," he explained. "It’s a conversation."
Sometimes, it’s the artist who surprises. When a New York gallerist commissioned a canvas from Mark Rothko, she expected one of his famous colorful compositions. Instead, Rothko delivered an almost black painting, crossed by thin red lines. "This is what I felt when I thought of your space," he told her. The gallerist, initially shocked, grew to love the piece. Today, it is considered one of his most powerful works.
The moment of truth: when the work leaves the studio
There is always a particular thrill when a work leaves the studio to meet its owner. For Christo and Jeanne-Claude, this came in 1985, when The Pont Neuf Wrapped was finally unveiled. A decade of negotiations with the Paris city government, thousands of meters of polyamide fabric—and suddenly, the city’s oldest bridge was transformed into an ephemeral sculpture. "We didn’t know if Parisians would love it or hate it," Christo recalled. "But when we saw people stopping, touching the fabric, we knew the work was alive."
For private collectors, the moment is just as intense. Imagine receiving a Gerhard Richter painting, commissioned specifically for your living room. The delivery truck arrives, movers carefully unpack the wooden crate. And then, before your eyes, appears that gray, blurred surface, painted with scrapers that left nearly imperceptible traces. Richter, known for his abstract canvases, may have captured something of your story without even knowing you.
Some works, once installed, seem as if they’ve always been there. Like Jeff Koons’s Puppy, the flower-covered dog sculpture that greets visitors at the Guggenheim Bilbao. Or Monet’s Water Lilies, commissioned by the French state for the Orangerie, which now envelops visitors in liquid light.
The legacy: when the commission becomes legend
Some custom works transcend their time to enter history. In 1503, Francesco del Giocondo commissioned Leonardo da Vinci to paint a portrait of his wife, Lisa. No one could have imagined that this painting—today known as the Mona Lisa—would become the most famous artwork in the world. Yet at the time, it was just another commission: a family portrait, destined to decorate a Florentine salon.
Other commissions have changed the course of art. When Pope Julius II asked Michelangelo to paint the Sistine Chapel ceiling, the artist—who considered himself a sculptor—protested. "I am not a painter!" he exclaimed. Yet under pressure, he accepted. Four years later, the ceiling was covered with muscular bodies and tormented faces, an artistic revolution that influenced generations.
Today, commissions continue to shape contemporary art. In 2021, Beeple sold Everydays: The First 5000 Days, a digital work commissioned as an NFT, for $69 million. An astronomical sum for a creation that exists only as code. Yet this sale marked a turning point: now, a commission can be immaterial, accessible to all, and yet unique.
The final secret: what if the work chooses you?
There is a question few collectors dare to ask: what if, in the end, it isn’t you who commissions the work, but the work that chooses you? When Peggy Guggenheim asked Jackson Pollock to create a canvas for her New York apartment, she had no idea she would receive Mural, a monumental painting that would revolutionize abstract art. "I wanted something big," she recalled. "But I didn’t expect that."
Sometimes, the ideal commission is the one that surprises you. Like the collector who asked Ai Weiwei for a sculpture for his garden. The Chinese artist proposed a porcelain work representing sunflower seeds—millions of them, each hand-painted. "It’s a metaphor for China," Ai Weiwei explained. "Each seed is unique, but together, they form a whole." The collector, moved, understood that this work also spoke of his own story.
Commissioning a custom work means accepting the unexpected. It means trusting an artist to transform your desires into something greater than yourself. And sometimes, as with the Mona Lisa or Guernica, it means unknowingly participating in the creation of a myth.
So the next time you hesitate to take the leap, remember: behind every masterpiece lies a commission, a dialogue, an encounter. And who knows? Perhaps it’s your turn to write history.
The secret alchemy: When a work of art is born from your desire | Buying Guide
