What Makes A Masterpiece?

By Theresa Rézeau 

The word masterpiece is a beacon and a shadow, glittering in auction catalogs, humming in gallery whispers, flickering across social media feeds. Yet the more it's invoked, the slipperier it becomes. In an art world where every work is "significant," every sale “historic," what truly earns the title of masterpiece? Is it a price tag, a cultural moment, or a quiet force that stops you cold, demanding no explanation?

This question pulls us through history, markets and the human heart. A masterpiece is more than art; it’s a collision of craft, vision and truth, a conversation across time. For collectors, artists and admirers, pursuing masterpieces is both privilege and challenge, requiring discernment in a world drowned in noise. The term “masterpiece” began in medieval Europe’s workshops, born of sweat and skill. A “master piece” was an apprentice’s definitive work to join a guild, a chair, a painting, a carved relief proving technical mastery. It signified precision, not poetry.

By the Renaissance, the term soared. A masterpiece became a seismic event in visual culture. Raphael's The School of Athens (1509-1511), a fresco of intellectual harmony, redefined the ideals of beauty and knowledge with its masterful composition.

(Raphael's The School of Athens (1509-1511), a fresco of intellectual harmony, redefined Renaissance ideals of beauty and knowledge.)

Rembrandt’s ‘The Night Watch’ (1642) reimagined portraiture with dynamic light, while Picasso’s ‘Guernica’ (1937) screamed against war’s horrors, reshaping art’s role as witness. These works weren’t just beautiful, they were irrevocable, altering how we see. Today, in an era of hashtags and billion-dollar auctions, the idea of a masterpiece feels omnipresent yet elusive. Can a single work still rise above the clamour?

In the modern art world, money often defines mastery. When Jean-Michel Basquiat’s ‘Untitled’ (1982) fetched $110.5 million in 2017, it was anointed a masterpiece overnight. Yayoi Kusama’s ‘White No. 28’ (1960) rode a $7.1 million sale to market stardom. Auction prices shape narratives, but numbers are fickle. A masterpiece isn’t just costly, it’s infinite, transcending trends and borders. Vincent van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night’ (1889), once ignored, now speaks universally, its swirling skies touching anyone who’s felt existence’s weight.

(Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night’(1889). Once overlooked, now speaks universally of existence’s weight and wonder. Its value lies not in dollars but in endurance, moving us without explanation.)

Not every iconic work is a masterpiece. Andy Warhol’s ‘Campbell’s Soup Cans’ (1962) and Banksy’s ‘Girl with Balloon’ (2006) are instantly recognisable, memed and merchandised. They’re symbols, but do they hold a masterpiece’s soul? Icons shout; masterpieces whisper, timeless and true.

A masterpiece can dwell anywhere, a museum, a collector’s home, a modest studio. It doesn’t need fanfare. Ethiopian artist Julie Mehretu’s ‘Mural’ (2010), a sprawling abstraction, maps global chaos, migration, capital, conflict in a symphony of lines. It’s no ‘Mona Lisa’,  but it’s a revelation to those who pause before it.

Carmen Herrera, a Cuban-American artist, worked in obscurity for decades. Her geometric abstractions, like ‘Blanco y Verde’ (1960), with crisp lines and vibrant contrasts, went unseen until her 90s. Recognition came not from hype but from collectors who saw her vision’s clarity. Her work earns its place quietly.

Masterpieces are not always crowned at creation. They’re often buried, delayed, denied. Alma Thomas, a Black woman, painted kaleidoscopic abstractions pulsing with innovation and joy. Yet it wasn’t until 1972, in her 80s, that she became the first African American woman with a solo Whitney Museum exhibition. Her story echoes countless visionaries overlooked for being Black, female, queer, neurodivergent, or beyond the Euro-American circuit. The canon isn’t sacred, it’s shaped. Collectors, alongside curators, are its sculptors. To collect is to preserve and to choose who’s remembered.

This power of discovery extends to artists like Frank Chinea Inguanzo, a Cuban-American whose expressionistic works grip with raw depth. His painting ‘Somewhere In Time ’ portrays a surreal, haunting scene evoking existential dread and reflecting on humanity’s fragility in a collapsing world.

(Frank Chinea Inguanzo's ‘Somewhere In Time’ (2017). A surreal, apocalyptic vision of distorted figures under a turbulent green sky, reflects humanity's fragility in a collapsing world. Image by Frank Chinea Inguanzo)

Drawing from his emigration from Cuba in 1962 and Cold War fears, Chinea Inguanzo's ‘Somewhere In Time’ portrays a surreal "paradise of life and death" where pale, distorted figures, part angel, part demon, stand in despair on barren ground, haunted by faceless shadows beyond a twisted forest. Echoing William Blake in its visceral pull, the work proves that masterpieces can rise from the margins. His neo-romantic visions, born of personal struggle, remind us that art's power often lies in its raw, unfiltered truth.

These stories show masterpieces emerge from silence. Njideka Akunyili Crosby’s ‘I Refuse to Be Invisible’ (2010) blends personal and cultural histories with quiet intensity. Doris Salcedo’s ‘Shibboleth’ (2007), a crack in the Tate Modern’s floor, speaks of division without words. A masterpiece doesn’t need to be loud, it needs to be true.

The art world is shifting. Masterpiece London, a collector’s haven from 2010 to 2022, closed in 2023, felled by Brexit, rising costs and VAT changes. Its end signals a broader change: the power to define masterpieces now lies with collectors, artists, even casual observers. This democratisation is thrilling if chaotic, with dealers, influencers, and algorithms competing to name what’s “great.” Collectors face both opportunity and responsibility: to find masterpieces before the world does, trusting their eye and heart. Platforms like Artsy or Theresa Rézeau Fine Art offer access to works from Mumbai to Miami. Social media amplifies hidden voices, Kehinde Wiley’s Portrait of a Young Man (2015) went viral not through museums, but through resonance. Today’s masterpieces connect instantly, no permission needed, only presence.

But for artists, this landscape is double-edged. The market demands immediacy, trapping talents like Amoako Boafo in cycles of expectation. Social media amplifies, then scrutinises. Tetsuya Ishida’s surreal Prisoner (1999) bloomed only posthumously, freed from such pressures. In a world where one post can make or break a career, collectors have a quiet power: to give artists space. By supporting visionaries like Chinea Inguanzo or recognising Alma Thomas’s brilliance, collectors help shape the future canon.

A true masterpiece doesn’t chase the moment, it endures. Compare NFT frenzies to Agnes Martin’s The Tree (1964), whose minimalist grids grow more profound with time. Support living artists: buying from talents like Salman Toor, whose Bar Boy (2020) captures queer life with tenderness, fuels future creation. In contrast, the market’s urgency fades; a masterpiece lingers.

How do you find a masterpiece? Trust your instincts and seek the unseen. A work that haunts you, whether in a gallery or on Instagram, holds the spark of eternity. South African Cinga Samson’s ‘Two Boys’ (2018) rose through word-of-mouth, its haunting portraits probing identity. Context, like Chinea Inguanzo’s Cuban roots, deepens appreciation, but a masterpiece stands alone. You don’t need apartheid’s history to feel William Kentridge’s ‘Drawing for Felix in Exile’ (1994).

So what makes a masterpiece? It might be Alma Thomas’s joyful abstractions, Chinea Inguanzo’s haunted skies, or Lynette Yiadom-Boakye’s Flycatcher (2014), a portrait like a half-remembered dream. A masterpiece arrests you. It makes time irrelevant. In a world of spectacle, recognising one is an act of discernment. It remakes the viewer. That is its radical power.