The secret alchemy: when your story becomes a work of art
On October 12, 1964, a shy young man crossed the threshold of Francis Bacon’s studio in London. His name was George Dyer, and he had just answered a cryptic classified ad: "Model wanted for portrait. No experience necessary. Payment in whisky." What was meant to be an ordinary sitting would give ris
By Artedusa
••15 min read
The secret alchemy: when your story becomes a work of art
On October 12, 1964, a shy young man crossed the threshold of Francis Bacon’s studio in London. His name was George Dyer, and he had just answered a cryptic classified ad: "Model wanted for portrait. No experience necessary. Payment in whisky." What was meant to be an ordinary sitting would give rise to one of the most unsettling series in modern art—a sequence of canvases in which Bacon, obsessed with that face at once vulgar and tragic, would capture the very essence of human fragility. The result? Three Studies for a Portrait of George Dyer (1963), later sold for $51.7 million. But beyond the price, these paintings tell a far deeper story: that of an encounter between an artist and his subject, where chance vies with necessity, and where the final work always exceeds initial expectations.
Commissioning a work of art is far more than placing an order. It is entering into a silent dialogue with a creator, accepting that your vision will be transformed under their hands, and sometimes discovering that the artist has perceived in you something you never knew yourself. Whether you dream of a portrait that captures the soul of a loved one, an abstract canvas that converses with your interior, or an installation that will mark a place for decades, the commissioning process is an adventure where psychology, aesthetics, and even a touch of magic intertwine. But how does one navigate this world where the intimate brushes against the professional, where budgets run into the thousands—or millions—and where every detail matters?
Let us step behind the scenes of these unique creations, where art meets life.
The first glance: when the artist sees what you cannot
There is something almost supernatural in the way certain artists manage to grasp the essence of a person or a place from the very first exchange. Take Kehinde Wiley, whose official portrait of Barack Obama captivated the world. When the former president entrusted him with the task, Wiley did not seek to reproduce an official image. Instead, he spent hours discussing Obama’s heritage, his doubts, his hopes. The result? A portrait in which the president, seated in an armchair adorned with exuberant floral patterns, appears both rooted in history and projected toward the future. The flowers surrounding him were not chosen at random: they symbolize Kenya (his father’s homeland), Hawaii (where he grew up), and Chicago (his adopted city). "I wanted this portrait to tell a story," Wiley explained. "Not just that of a man, but of a country."
This ability to transform a commission into a visual narrative is what sets great artists apart. When you approach a creator, you are not merely asking them to paint a picture—you are offering them raw material, which they will shape according to their sensibility. Some, like Lucian Freud, demanded dozens of sittings to pierce the armor of their models. Others, like David Hockney, prefer to work from photographs, but reinterpret them with such intensity that the final work seems to breathe. "A good portrait does not just show what a person looks like," Freud said. "It reveals who they are."
But beware: this alchemy only works if you are willing to let go. Too many clients arrive with preconceived ideas, rigid mood boards, or worse—requests to "copy-paste" existing works. Yet it is precisely in the space between your vision and the artist’s that magic is born. When collector Charles Saatchi commissioned Damien Hirst’s The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living (1991), he had no idea he would receive a 4.3-meter tiger shark suspended in formaldehyde. Yet this work became one of the most iconic pieces of contemporary art. "If you want something safe, buy a poster," Hirst often advises. "A commission is an adventure."
The invisible contract: when art collides with paperwork
Behind every commissioned masterpiece lies a document as arid as it is essential: the contract. In 2018, when the Salvator Mundi attributed to Leonardo da Vinci sold for $450 million, the media marveled at the price. What went less reported was the logistical nightmare that followed. Who pays for shipping? Who assumes the risk in case of damage? And above all—who truly owns the rights to the image? For owning a canvas does not mean holding its copyright. When the Louvre wanted to reproduce the Salvator Mundi on posters, it had to negotiate with the Saudi owner, who ultimately refused. The result? The most expensive painting in the world became a ghostly work, visible only to those who travel to Abu Dhabi.
A good artist’s contract is like a musical score: it must account for every note, even the faintest. Here is what it should absolutely include:
A precise description of the work (dimensions, materials, techniques). When Christo and Jeanne-Claude wrapped the Reichstag in 1995, their contract specified even the type of fabric used and the exact duration of the installation.
A realistic timeline. Michelangelo took four years to paint the Sistine Chapel ceiling. Today, an artist like Julie Mehretu may spend two years on a single abstract canvas. "A rushed deadline guarantees a botched work," warns a Parisian gallerist.
Payment terms. The golden rule? 30 to 50 percent upon signing, the balance upon delivery. But some artists require staggered payments, especially for monumental projects.
Reproduction rights. If you want to print your portrait on mugs or pillows, ensure the contract permits it. Banksy, for his part, prohibits any commercial reproduction of his works—even those you own.
The "moral rights" clause. In France, an artist can oppose the destruction or modification of their work, even after sale. This is how American sculptor Richard Serra had Tilted Arc (1981), a public work deemed too cumbersome by Federal Plaza employees, removed.
But the real challenge is not legal—it is psychological. "Clients often fear appearing philistine if they talk about money," confides an art lawyer. "Yet it is the best way to avoid misunderstandings." In 2014, American artist Peter Doig had to face a lawsuit from a man claiming to be the author of a painting signed "Pete Doige 76." After years of legal battle, experts proved Doig had never painted the canvas. The moral? A clear contract is also protection against fraud.
The dance of egos: when artist and client clash
In 1884, John Singer Sargent unveiled Madame X at the Paris Salon. The portrait of Virginie Gautreau, an American beauty, caused a scandal: her black dress, her pale complexion, and above all, one of her straps slipping off her shoulder, shocked the public. "She looks like a prostitute!" exclaimed one critic. Gautreau, humiliated, demanded Sargent withdraw the painting. The artist refused but discreetly adjusted the strap to its proper place. Today, Madame X is considered a masterpiece. Yet this anecdote reveals a cruel truth: a commission can turn into a nightmare when expectations diverge.
Conflicts between artists and clients are as old as art itself. In 1506, Pope Julius II commissioned Michelangelo to create a monumental tomb. The initial plan called for 40 statues. But the capricious pope changed his mind and asked the artist to paint the Sistine Chapel ceiling instead. Michelangelo, furious, wrote in a letter: "Painting is not my trade." Yet he complied—and created one of the most famous works in history. "An artist is like a racehorse," explains a New York collector. "You have to know how to push them, but not break them."
So how to avoid clashes? First, by choosing an artist whose style aligns with your tastes. "Don’t ask a hyperrealist to paint like an impressionist," advises a London gallerist. Then, by accepting that the final work may surprise you—even unsettle you. When Frida Kahlo painted The Two Fridas (1939), her double self-portrait, she had just divorced Diego Rivera. The canvas, heartrending, shows two versions of herself: one in a European dress, the other in traditional Mexican attire, their hearts connected by bleeding veins. Rivera, horrified, asked Frida to hide it. Today, it is displayed at the Museum of Mexico.
Sometimes, conflict arises from a technical detail. In 2017, American artist Sam Durant had to withdraw his work Scaffold (2012), an installation depicting gallows used in historical executions, after protests from the Native American community. "A work of art must be open to discussion, criticism, even hatred," Durant believes. "But it must not wound." The lesson? A successful commission is one where both artist and client agree to question themselves.
The price of the unique: why some works cost a fortune (and others, almost nothing)
In 2021, a work by American artist Beeple, Everydays: The First 5000 Days, sold for $69 million at Christie’s. What made this sale exceptional was not just the price, but the fact that the work was a digital commission—a collage of 5,000 images created daily by the artist over 13 years. Yet at the same time, talented painters struggle to sell their canvases for a few hundred euros. How to explain such a gap?
The price of a commissioned work depends on several factors, often invisible to the layperson:
The artist’s reputation. A painting by Gerhard Richter sells for between $5 and $30 million. A canvas by an emerging artist? Between €1,000 and €10,000. "The art market works like the luxury market," explains an expert. "The rarer it is, the more expensive—even if quality is not always there."
Technical complexity. A bronze sculpture, like Alberto Giacometti’s Walking Man (sold for $104 million in 2010), requires months of work and rare skills. An abstract canvas painted in a day? Less expensive.
Provenance. A work commissioned by a famous collector or a prestigious institution immediately gains value. In 2018, a Modigliani painting owned by the Rockefeller family sold for $157 million—a record for the artist.
The story behind it. Works that tell a story sell better. When British artist Grayson Perry created The Walthamstow Tapestry (2009), a monumental tapestry depicting a family’s life, he included personal details requested by the commissioner. The result? The work was exhibited at Tate Modern.
But beware: price does not always equal value. In 2014, a Chinese collector bought a painting by Zeng Fanzhi for $23.3 million. Yet experts consider the canvas, The Last Supper (2001), a kitsch reinterpretation of Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece. "The art market is irrational," admits a gallerist. "A work is worth what someone is willing to pay for it."
For tighter budgets, alternatives exist:
Emerging artists. Platforms like Rise Art or Saatchi Art connect collectors with undiscovered talents. "I bought a 1.5-meter abstract canvas for €1,200," says a Parisian decorator. "Today, the artist exhibits at the FIAC."
Limited editions. Artists like Takashi Murakami or KAWS offer serigraphs or limited-edition sculptures at more accessible prices.
Artist residencies. Some cities (like Marseille or Berlin) subsidize residencies where artists create works for private individuals at lower costs.
Digital art. NFTs have democratized access to unique works. In 2022, a generative work by artist Tyler Hobbs sold for $1.2 million—but similar pieces exist starting at $100.
The work and its double: when the copy surpasses the original
In 1917, Marcel Duchamp bought a porcelain urinal, signed it "R. Mutt," and titled it Fountain. Submitted to an exhibition, the work was rejected—yet it would later be considered one of the most influential pieces of the 20th century. This radical gesture raised a fundamental question: must a work of art be unique? Today, with NFTs and 3D printing, this question is more relevant than ever.
When you commission a work, you are buying far more than an object: you acquire a story, an intention, and sometimes, a right. But what happens when that work can be endlessly reproduced? In 2021, American artist Mike Winkelmann (aka Beeple) sold a digital work for $69 million. Yet anyone can download a copy from the internet. "What has value is not the image, but the certificate of authenticity," explains a blockchain expert. "It’s like owning the deed to a painting, not the painting itself."
This ambiguity between original and copy is nothing new. In the 17th century, Dutch painters like Rembrandt produced dozens of versions of their portraits. Today, artists like Jeff Koons or Yayoi Kusama delegate part of their production to assistants. "Is a work of art less valuable if it is not entirely handmade?" wonders a collector. "The answer depends on what you seek: a unique object or an idea?"
For purists, nothing replaces authenticity. "When you buy a canvas by Pierre Soulages, you know every brushstroke is his," explains a Parisian gallerist. But for others, art must evolve with its time. In 2022, artist Refik Anadol created Machine Hallucinations, a work generated by artificial intelligence from millions of images. Exhibited at London’s Serpentine Gallery, it drew thousands of visitors. "Art is no longer about technique, but about experience," Anadol believes. "What matters is the emotion it provokes."
The invisible legacy: when art outlives its commissioner
In 1982, a young unknown architect, Maya Lin, won a competition to design a memorial for soldiers who died in Vietnam. Her project? A V-shaped black granite wall engraved with the names of the 58,000 victims. At the time, veterans cried scandal: "It’s a wall of shame!" they shouted. Today, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial is one of the most visited monuments in Washington. Every year, thousands of visitors leave letters, flowers, and personal objects there. "A work of art only takes on its full meaning over time," Lin explains. "It must outlive its creator, its commissioner, and even those who criticized it."
Commissioning a work is also accepting that it will escape you. In 1992, collectors Dominique and Jean de Menil commissioned artist Cy Twombly to create a series of canvases for their foundation’s chapel in Houston. After the de Menils’ deaths, no one knew what would become of these works. Today, the Cy Twombly Chapel is a pilgrimage site for contemporary art lovers. "A successful commission is one that transcends its era," says a museum curator. "It must speak to future generations."
But how to ensure a work endures through the centuries? First, by choosing durable materials. Linen canvases and mineral pigments last longer than cheap acrylics. Then, by documenting its history. "A painting without provenance is like a book without an author," explains an art expert. "It loses part of its value." Finally, by displaying it under optimal conditions. Light, humidity, pollution—all can alter a work. "A Monet painting exposed to full sunlight can lose its colors in a few decades," warns a restorer.
Sometimes, the legacy of a commission is unexpected. In 2005, artists Christo and Jeanne-Claude wrapped Berlin’s Reichstag in 100,000 square meters of silver fabric. The installation, ephemeral, lasted only two weeks. Yet it left its mark on art history. "A work does not have to be permanent to be immortal," Christo believes. "What matters is the emotion it evokes."
The final brushstroke: when the work becomes yours
There is something magical about the moment a commissioned work is finally delivered. It is not just a painting you hang on the wall, or a sculpture you place on a pedestal. It is the fruit of a dialogue, of anticipation, sometimes even of tension. And when you contemplate it for the first time, you always find a bit of yourself in it.
In 2018, British artist Tracey Emin unveiled her nude self-portrait, I Want My Time With You, commissioned for London’s St Pancras station. The work, a pink neon inscription, flickers like a beating heart. "I wanted travelers to feel welcomed," Emin explains. "Not by a commercial message, but by something real, vulnerable." When the first passengers discovered the work, some smiled, others looked away. But no one remained indifferent. "That is the power of a successful commission," says a critic. "It must touch you, unsettle you, or amaze you. But never leave you unmoved."
So how do you know if a work is "successful"? Perhaps when it surprises you. When it makes you see the world differently. Or when, years later, you still remember the day you received it.
For in the end, commissioning a work of art is like planting a tree. You do not know what it will look like in ten years. You do not know who will sit in its shade. But you know one thing: it will be unique. And it will forever bear the trace of your passage.
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