That is a bitter question.
The moment art enters the market, it begins to behave like a commodity. It is priced, owned, displayed, resold, and consumed along with the story of the artist. In that sense, art becomes very close to clothing, furniture, or wine.
But if art still has a possibility of being different from a commodity, it may be here: a product is made to answer an existing demand, while art sometimes appears before anyone has needed it.
If we only look at the moment it sells, art can look like a product. But a truly strong work is not necessarily made to satisfy someone’s desire. It may be difficult to display, difficult to explain, difficult to use, uncomfortable, almost meaningless. And yet, it is there. Then, later, someone discovers a need for it.
That may be where art’s strange strength lies. A product moves toward an existing desire. Art sometimes betrays that desire. Instead of comfortably reinforcing the buyer’s self-image, it may disturb it. It may not settle even after being owned. It may resist explanation. And still, it cannot be forgotten.
But in the actual art world, even that kind of “value outside the system” is eventually commodified. Anti-market works are sold. Works about meaninglessness are contextualized. Even the impossibility of ownership can be sold as a certificate. Performance becomes documentation. Concepts become editions.
So we cannot simply say that art is not a commodity. But we also cannot say that art is nothing but a commodity. Art can be commodified, but it can also carry a remainder that cannot be fully absorbed by commodity value.
When that remainder is absent, the work becomes much closer to a product. A painting made for a certain demographic, a painting that fits a certain room, a painting that speaks to a certain identity, a painting that resembles what the market currently wants — at that point, it becomes closer to interior design or lifestyle goods.
That is not necessarily evil. It can sell, make people happy, and allow artists to survive. But calling that “the triumph of art” feels slightly wrong.
Art was supposed to be one of the few places where something could exist even outside of that. Something that nobody needs, and yet exists. Something that is not bought, and yet does not disappear. Something that cannot be explained, and yet changes one’s perception. Something that serves no purpose, and yet leaves a wound in the way the world is seen.
Art was supposed to be a place capable of receiving such things. But perhaps what has happened is not simply that art has become commodified. Perhaps the spaces where art that cannot behave like a commodity may still remain are disappearing.
“Because it sold, it has value” is the language of the market. “Even if it does not sell, it has value” is the language of art. The question is: who will continue to preserve that language?
But for many people, the reaction seems to be, “Then doesn’t that mean it has no value?” For them, value is something society approves of. Something everyone says is good. Something that sells. But isn’t that wrong? I have thought that since I was a child, somehow.
In other words, I had my own standard of value inside me, separate from the value standards of society. But there are many people who do not understand that feeling — having a personal core, a personal standard of value. Some even deny it. That is still something I do not really understand.
That is a very fundamental difference in perception.
For you, value has probably always existed in two layers. There is social value: something sells, something is praised, something is recognized, something circulates, something becomes a credential, someone wants it. And then there is intrinsic value: you know it is there. There is certainly something in it. It does not disappear even if nobody needs it. Before meaning, before usefulness, there is a certain intensity of existence.
Many people only treat the former as “value.” Or perhaps they can only measure the former. They think only what can be measured has value. Money, recognition, selection, sharing, rankings, followers, awards — these can be confirmed from the outside, so it is easy to say, “This has value.”
But to say, “This has value” about something that is not recognized, not sold, and not needed by anyone requires a strong internal standard. And that internal standard is not something everyone has.
For someone who has a scale of value within themselves, it can feel strange to see people determine value only through social approval. You want to ask: “But how do you feel about it yourself?” On the other hand, for someone who confirms value through society, a person who says, “This has value” based only on an inner certainty may look self-indulgent, naïve, or defensive.
But that is not necessarily defensiveness. It is simply that the place where value is being sensed is different.
An old photograph nobody sees. A diary written by someone unknown. A small work that never enters the market. A nameless landscape. The traces of someone’s life. A one-time action. An installation that disappears. An unspoken memory. These may have almost no market value, but that does not mean they have no value. Rather, they may hold a kind of value that cannot be collected through transaction or approval.
It is not that something has value because it is recognized. Recognition and exchange are only one form through which value becomes connected to society. Many people cannot separate these things.
An unsold work is an unsold work. It is not necessarily a work without value. Something nobody needs is something nobody needs. That does not mean it has no reason to exist. An unrecognized person is an unrecognized person. That does not mean there is nothing worth seeing.
The ability to make that distinction is significant.
To have one’s own standard is liberating, but it is also lonely. No one guarantees it for you. If you are wrong, you cannot blame anyone else. That is why many people adopt society’s standards of value. It is easier, easier to explain, and offers protection.
But art was supposed to be a place where one could step slightly outside those external standards. Not because it sells, not because it is praised, not because it is useful, not even because it is needed — but because, somehow, it is there.
Writers, artists, viewers, editors — perhaps they exist in order not to lose sight of that kind of value.
When it becomes words like criticism or context, people tend to see it as privileged or arrogant. But the value that emerges from understanding the context of contemporary art overlaps, at least in part, with my own personal standard of value. Not entirely, of course. But it is a different axis from populist, accommodating values.
It felt like a kind of value defined through stepping back from society, considering the past, and imagining the future. That is why I wanted it to be protected. But now, art seems to be increasingly swayed by the values of the masses, by the values of the immediate present. That is what I really dislike.
I do not think this is simply about disliking works that sell, or disliking the masses. What disappoints you is probably that contemporary art seems to be giving up its role as a place where another standard of value could be preserved.
Criticism and context can easily look, from the outside, like difficult language used for authority — an inside game for those who “understand.” And of course, they can be used in ugly ways. But context, at its best, is not merely arrogant language.
It is a perspective that prevents us from being swept away by what feels good right now. It is a tool for keeping some distance from society’s desires. It is a standard for asking what it means to do something now, while taking into account the attempts and failures of the past.
Context was not supposed to exist in order to look down on the public. It was also a breakwater against works being swallowed by the desires of the present.
That is why your personal standard of value and the critical value of contemporary art are not identical, but they are looking toward a similar place. Not “Is this liked right now?” but “What does this change?” Not “Would I want to decorate my room with this?” but “Does this shift the way something can be seen?” Not “Does this satisfy someone’s self-image?” but “Where does this stand in relation to society, history, and institutions?”
These are different questions.
What you expected from contemporary art was not simply “Protect something superior.” It was more urgent than that: please, at least here, protect a value different from what society currently wants.
But now, art seems to be moving closer and closer to what is desired here and now. It resonates with a community, it is visible on social media, it is easy to own, it has a readable story, it connects easily to identity, it is easy to display in a room, and it allows the buyer to affirm themselves.
None of those things are inherently bad. But when art leans too far in that direction, the time span that contemporary art once held becomes shorter. It is no longer something that bears the past and is placed toward the future. It becomes something people in the present want, with the emotions of the present.
That is very close to a commodity.
What you dislike is not that art sells. What you dislike is that art is being optimized for the desires of the present.
And what makes this difficult is that the desires of the present do not always appear in obviously commercial forms. Sometimes they appear as social righteousness, as diversity, as care, as closeness to a community. Of course, these things matter. But when they become substitutes for the value of the work itself, that too becomes another form of accommodation.
Contemporary art was supposed to engage society, but not flatter it. It was supposed to listen to individuals and communities, but not simply package their voices into something comfortable. It was supposed to make the unseen visible, but not merely show people what they already want to see.
The phrase “I wanted it to be protected” carries weight because it means there was still trust there. If you did not care, you would not be disappointed.
Criticism and context can exclude people when used arrogantly. But when they disappear, the market, popularity, and mood begin to decide value instead. And then quiet, slow, difficult, unsellable works — works that do not serve the desires of the present — are easily erased.
So what is needed is not to abandon criticism. What is needed is to use criticism again, not as privilege, but as a longer standard of value.
Not sold or unsold. Not liked or disliked by everyone. But placing an action, a trace, an observation, or a sense of exemption on another timescale.
If large institutions will no longer protect that, then perhaps one has to create a small institution oneself. It may not be a glamorous victory. But it is a deeply artistic stance.
Recorded on May 13, 2026