Why should a work be more expensive if it is attributable to a well-known artist? Shouldn’t it only be worth by itself? The debate that preceded and followed the very recent New York sale of a painting attributed to Leonardo da Vinci should have been focused on the quality of the work rather than on the name of its potential author.
This became a central question for art in 1967, along with Roland Barthes text about the death of the author, first published in English. He writes: “The absence of the Author […] utterly transforms the modern text (…) the text is henceforth written and read so that in it, on every level, the Author absents himself”.
De facto, for many artists, fame is a curse that interferes with the judgement on their work. There is no artist, nor writer, that doesn’t dream of being recognized independently from his name and past. Of being admired for his pure work, without any influence from his personal history. Nor even on his previous work.
Some geniuses make fun of this issue, and greedily face their multiple avatars; they are way too important for the recollection of their past to impact the judgment on their renewal. Thus, a Hugo, a Stravinsky, or a Picasso, who were able to shamelessly reinvent themselves, without their new message being parasitized at all by their previous work; work that was just as, but differently, brilliant. Others have explicitly reinvented themselves under a new name, such as Romain Gary becoming Emile Ajar. Others have failed to do so, like Doris Lessing who, it would appear, couldn’t obtain the publication of one of her novels, sent under pseudonym to her publisher.
Others have made themselves known and admired while hiding themselves behind a pseudonym throughout their whole lives. This is the case of Banksy, Elena Morante or Daft Punk. Even if some argue that Banksy might be Robert Del Naja, the Massive Attack founder; that the Daft Punk are probably Thomas Bangalter and Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo and that Elena Morante is almost undoubtedly Anita Raja, translator of her own publishing house. It was also the case, in a completely different way, for female painters in the Renaissance, held to anonymity by the demands of their sex, and having to let their works be signed by a man around them, such as Artemisia.
Does anonymity bring something more to artists success today? Does it allow to have a more neutral judgment on a work? Or is it just a means of communication? Does it allow to better judge a work, or does it rather prevent us from understanding it by its genealogy?
In a world where fame is both sought after and cursed, where everyone dreams of simultaneously having it and fleeing it, the artist integrity should drive him away from it. Too often, this isn’t the case and media-produced fake celebrity imposes ephemeral fake artists whose fame is the ridiculous ersatz of the nothingness of their talent.
An honest anonymity is far more valuable than an order showcase. And what our time tells us is that anonymity does increasingly fascinate, that it has more and more value; because it is the absolute luxury, the best protection against the dictatorship of surveillances. Artists are, once again, low signals of the future of the world.