The gamble of the emerging: When contemporary art stakes its survival

This tightrope is stretched daily by hundreds of artists, gallerists, and collectors, balancing intuition and calculation. Betting on the emerging means accepting to invest in works whose value is not yet established, in materials that resist time poorly, in concepts that defy market expectations. But it also means participating in the writing of art history. How do you distinguish a stroke of genius from a dead end? Where does boldness end and recklessness begin? A dive into the mechanisms of a market where risk is not an option, but a necessity.

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01When risk becomes the medium: ephemeral art as manifesto

In a disused warehouse in Berlin, the Swiss artist Vincent Kohler installed a giant roulette wheel. Visitors were invited to bet on miniature artworks created for the occasion. The winner left with the piece they had wagered on—or with nothing if the ball landed on zero. Casino, presented in 2015 at the Chantal Crousel Gallery, was more than a performance: it was a metaphor for the art market, where value is as much a matter of chance as strategy.

Kohler pushed the concept further in 2018 with Slot Machine, an interactive work where the public pulled the lever of a slot machine to reveal fragments of artworks. During its exhibition at the Kunsthalle Bern, a frustrated visitor smashed the touchscreen. Instead of repairing the installation, Kohler left it as it was, turning destruction into an integral part of the work. "Risk, here, is not an accident but the very subject," he explains. His materials—raw wood, rusted metal, low-cost screens—reflect this philosophy: art must be accessible, even at the cost of its own fragility.

At the opposite end of the spectrum, the French artist Fiona (whose doctoral thesis explores "emerging forms of ephemeral art") works with living organisms. Her installation Symbiose (2020), presented at the Domaine de Chamarande, used mycorrhizal fungi to create luminous patterns on earth panels. Visitors walked barefoot across the work, leaving traces that altered the growth of the microorganisms. "A work of art doesn’t need to last to have value," she asserts. Yet this approach raises a crucial question: how do you preserve what is, by nature, destined to disappear?

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02Conservation, or the art of preserving the impossible

In 2006, the Museum of Modern Art in New York acquired Untitled (Portrait of Ross in L.A.), a work by Felix Gonzalez-Torres consisting of 175 pounds of individually wrapped candies. The public was invited to help themselves, gradually reducing the pile. The piece, conceived as a metaphor for disappearance (Ross was the artist’s partner, who died of AIDS), posed an unprecedented conservation challenge: how do you preserve a work that is meant to be depleted?

The museum opted for a radical solution: it replaced the candies as they were taken. But this approach raised ethical questions. "By restoring the work, aren’t we betraying its original intent?" wondered Glenn Wharton, a conservator at MoMA. For ephemeral works, conservation becomes an act of reinterpretation. Thus, Olafur Eliasson’s Ice Watch, an installation of melting ice blocks in public spaces, now exists only in photographs and videos. Its value lies in its documentation—a paradox for a work that celebrated physical presence.

Unstable materials further complicate matters. Urs Fischer’s wax paintings (The Wax Project, 2011) melt under heat, while Eliasson’s ice installations vanish within hours. Even digital works are not spared: videos from the 1990s, stored on magnetic tapes, become unreadable without emulators. In 2023, the Centre Pompidou launched a "living conservation" program for its interactive works, training technicians to maintain obsolete software.

For collectors, these challenges come at a cost. Insuring an ephemeral work can cost up to 5% of its value per year, compared to 0.5% for a classical painting. Some insurers refuse to cover pieces deemed "too risky." In 2022, a collector lost €200,000 when Biologizing the Machine by Anicka Yi, an installation using bacteria, was declared "unrestorable" after an air-conditioning failure.

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03The market, or the art of turning risk into value

In 2008, the financial crisis hit the art market hard. Prices for emerging artists plummeted: Wade Guyton’s digital prints dropped by 70%, and Tauba Auerbach’s works, then on the rise, lost half their value. Yet a decade later, Guyton and Auerbach were among the most sought-after contemporary artists. Their trajectory illustrates a golden rule of the market: risk pays off—if you survive the crisis.

Gallerists play a key role in this equation. In 2015, the Thaddaeus Ropac Gallery took a bold gamble by signing the then-unknown artist Julie Curtiss. Her dreamlike paintings, blending acrylic and Photoshop, immediately captivated collectors. In five years, her canvases went from €5,000 to €200,000. "We bet on artists whose work resonates with trends but who also have a strong signature," explains Ropac. His approach relies on a fine analysis of market expectations: a mix of data (auction sales, exhibition attendance) and intuition.

Art fairs like Art Basel or Frieze are laboratories for this calculated risk. In 2021, the Perrotin Gallery presented The Clock by Christian Marclay, a 24-hour video synchronized with real time. The work, bought for $46,000 in 2010, was estimated at $10 million. Yet exhibiting it at the fair was a logistical headache: how do you project a 24-hour video in a noisy, crowded space? Perrotin opted for an isolated room with armchairs and headphones. The result? A permanent queue and global media coverage.

For collectors, risk is measured in percentages. Experts estimate that a contemporary art portfolio should include 20 to 30% emerging works to maximize returns. But beware: according to the 2023 Artprice report, 80% of artists presented at fairs do not see their market value rise. The real challenge? Identifying the remaining 20%.

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04The symbols of risk: when the work speaks for itself

In contemporary art, certain motifs recur like leitmotifs of danger. Dice and roulette wheels, dear to Vincent Kohler, embody chance. Broken mirrors, as in Felix Gonzalez-Torres’s Untitled (Portrait of Ross in L.A.), symbolize fragility. Living organisms, used by Fiona or Pierre Huyghe, remind us that art, like life, is ephemeral.

But perhaps the most powerful symbol is money. In 2002, the Brazilian artist Cildo Meireles exhibited Money, an installation of 10,000 burned one-real bills. The work, bought by Tate Modern for $1 million, questions the intrinsic value of art. "Burning money is taking an economic risk to make a political statement," Meireles explains. Conversely, Damien Hirst’s spot paintings, sold in bulk at Sotheby’s in 2008 for $111 million, turn risk into a financial product.

Clocks and hourglasses, omnipresent in contemporary art, remind us that time is the ultimate enemy. Christian Marclay’s The Clock is the most accomplished example: a 24-hour work where every second is a race against obsolescence. At the opposite end, Tino Sehgal’s works, like This Progress (2010), leave no material trace. "A work that exists only in the public’s memory is the ultimate form of risk," Sehgal asserts.

These symbols are not trivial. They reveal a profound truth: in contemporary art, risk is not an accident but an essential component. As Joseph Beuys once said, "every man is an artist"—and every artist is a gambler.

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05Who owns risk? Provenance, or the art of collecting the uncertain

In 2014, a Chinese collector, Wang Zhongjun, bought The Last Supper by Zeng Fanzhi for $23.3 million. Three months later, he died of a heart attack. Rumors of a "curse" spread, fueled by the fact that the work depicted a scene of betrayal. Yet the real risk lay elsewhere: the painting’s provenance, purchased in a private sale, was unclear. In 2023, an expert questioned its authenticity, causing its value to drop by 30%.

Provenance is the Achilles’ heel of emerging works. Unlike classical pieces, whose histories are often documented over centuries, contemporary works depend on sometimes fragile certificates of authenticity. In 2018, a canvas attributed to Jean-Michel Basquiat was withdrawn from a Sotheby’s sale after experts cast doubt on its origin. The seller, an anonymous collector, lost $15 million.

For galleries, provenance is a selling point. Gagosian Gallery, for example, provides detailed dossiers for each work, including past exhibitions, publications, and certificates. "A work without solid provenance is like a painting without a frame: it loses value," explains a New York dealer. Yet some pieces defy this logic. Banksy’s Girl with Balloon, which self-destructed during its sale at Sotheby’s in 2018, saw its value multiply by 18. Its certificate of authenticity? A video of the destruction.

NFTs have further complicated matters. In 2021, Everydays: The First 5000 Days by Beeple sold for $69 million at Christie’s. Yet the original file remains accessible online. Who truly owns the work? The collector, who holds the token, or the public, who can view a copy? For jurists, the question remains open.

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06Risk as a social laboratory: when art tests limits

In 1974, Marina Abramović stood motionless for six hours, allowing the public to use 72 objects on her, including a loaded gun. Rhythm 0 was an extreme experiment: how far would visitors go? By the end, the artist, in tears, discovered she had been undressed, cut, and that a man had pointed the gun at her temple. "The risk here is not artistic but human," she commented.

Forty years later, artists continue to push boundaries. In 2020, the Chilean artist Voluspa Jarpa exhibited En nuestra pequeña región de por acá at the Palais de Tokyo, an installation exploring CIA archives on Latin America. The work, which included classified documents, drew threats of legal action. "Art must disturb to exist," Jarpa asserts.

For institutions, these works pose a dilemma. In 2015, the Musée d’Art Moderne de Paris canceled a performance by Deborah De Robertis, who planned to expose herself naked in front of Courbet’s The Origin of the World. The reason? "Risk of disturbing public order." Yet the same year, the museum hosted Abramović’s The Artist is Present, a performance where the artist sat in silence for 736 hours while the public waited for hours to sit across from her.

These examples show that risk in art is also a matter of context. What is acceptable in an avant-garde gallery may be censored in a public museum. In 2023, the Cartier Foundation presented Trees, an exhibition on primary forests. Among the works, an installation by the Brazilian artist Luiz Zerbini, made of living plants, drew criticism: "Is this art or botany?" The answer, as often, depends on who is asking.

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07To bet or not to bet? The collectors’ dilemma

In 2021, a Parisian collector bought a painting by Julie Curtiss for €15,000. Two years later, the same work sold for €120,000 at Christie’s. "I was lucky," he admits. Yet luck doesn’t explain everything. Before buying, he studied the artist’s career: her exhibitions at Thaddaeus Ropac, her sales at Phillips, her collaborations with luxury brands. "Risk can be calculated, even if it can’t be eliminated," he adds.

For collectors, betting on the emerging rests on three pillars: The signature: An artist must have a strong visual identity (e.g., Julie Curtiss’s dreamlike paintings, Marguerite Humeau’s hybrid sculptures). The trajectory: The galleries that represent them (Perrotin, Hauser & Wirth) and the institutions that exhibit them (Centre Pompidou, Tate Modern) are key indicators. The market: Auction sales (Artprice, Sotheby’s) and annual reports (Art Basel/UBS) help identify trends.

Yet even with these criteria, failures are common. In 2022, a New York collector bought a series of NFTs by Refik Anadol for $500,000. A year later, their value had dropped by 80%. "I underestimated the market’s volatility," he admits. Conversely, those who bet on artists like Njideka Akunyili Crosby, whose works rose from $5,000 to $3 million in five years, made a fortune.

The real risk, perhaps, is not losing money but missing out on a revolution. In 2004, a collector bought a painting by Mark Bradford for $2,000. Today, his works are worth $10 million. "Emerging art is like playing poker with history," sums up a dealer. "You never know who’s bluffing."