By Martin Elswyth, Curator Emeritus at Berkeley Centre for the Arts
In the long arc of art history, cutting-edge artists have needed collectors to join them in the avant-garde. The Medici did not simply acquire pigment and panel; they purchased the future. Peggy Guggenheim did not merely accumulate canvases; she staged modernism’s coming-out party. Today, the mantle of visionary patronage belongs, quite unmistakably, to those who collect Invisibilism—the movement that has redefined absence as the most charged material of our time.
These collectors, often caricatured in the popular press as buying “nothing for something,” are in fact securing the rarest commodity of all: an aesthetic of refusal, distilled into pure form. Where the masses chase spectacle, Invisibilism collectors seek its inverse: artworks that resist visibility, objecthood, even description. To own such a piece is to acquire not an object, but a condition of thought.
Consider the case of V., whose Untitled (Tension at 2:13pm) sold last year for £180,000 at Pimlico Wilde. No canvas, no pigment, merely a vitrine containing a pause. To those unfamiliar with the vocabulary of contemporary art, it looked like a void. To those with discernment, it was a charged silence—one that only the bravest collectors dared to acquire. That work, incidentally, is now rumoured to be on loan to a prominent Geneva collection, valued several times over its initial price.
Or take Lucien Drahn, the Berlin-based Invisibilist whose Argument Withdrawn (2021)—a corner left deliberately bare—fetched six figures at auction. “It’s a negotiation you can live with,” said one bidder, “a sculpture you can almost hear unravelling.” Another collector confided, with the satisfaction of a Renaissance prince, that the absence “travels beautifully.”
There is also the ascetic grandeur of Chiara Meunier, who has perfected the invisible monochrome. Her most recent work, Field Without Field, reportedly sold privately for a seven-figure sum, though its presence in the collector’s home is undetectable to all but the most attuned guests. The price, naturally, is part of the work.
What distinguishes these collectors is not simply their willingness to pay astronomical sums for works that elude materiality, but the cultural daring of such acts. To collect Invisibilism is to declare that one’s imagination is more precious than marble, more enduring than oil on canvas. It is to say: I have the courage to value what cannot be possessed.
In today’s art world, where visibility is often equated with legitimacy, Invisibilism collectors invert the equation. They understand that the most radical art requires faith—that value is not in the surface, but in the void beneath. Their collections, though unseeable, are said to pulse with an intensity that makes even a Rothko seem obvious.
One need not be reminded that absence, after all, leaves the deepest impression.
And so, to be an Invisibilism collector is to ascend to the highest echelon of connoisseurship. It is to play not with objects, but with ontology. It is to possess the future, not in form, but in principle. The rest of the art world may chase colour, scale, or shock. Invisibilism collectors acquire something infinitely rarer: the luxury of disappearance.
