What is contemporary art? What is the starting point?

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There are several different answers to this question. It is generally accepted that Contemporary art refers to works created from around the 1960s to the present, while Modern art spans roughly from 1860 to 1960. However, these dates vary across sources, and the terms are often confused.

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The most common definition states that contemporary art is simply any art being created today, regardless of its subject matter. However, this interpretation raises questions within institutional circles. For instance, if someone paints a vase of lilacs or a forest landscape in 2025, would that be considered contemporary art? Some argue that contemporary art is defined not just by when it is made but by its engagement with present-day issues, using the most relevant mediums.

The explanation that seems most logical to me is this: contemporary art began in the early 20th century, at a time when the world underwent rapid and irreversible change. I believe that meaningful art is inherently tied to social processes, to life and how it is perceived, to its rhythm. When life changes, art inevitably changes with it. The late 19th and early 20th centuries marked a period of profound and definitive transformation. Unlike previous upheavals, it became clear that the past could never return—society had entered a new era that required a new understanding of the world. And that is precisely what artists set out to explore.

 

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Which museums of contemporary art would you recommend in Lisbon or around? What do you like about each one of them? Is there one (any permanent exhibition) that feels particularly special to you?

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My absolute favorite is the CCB in Belém. Their modern art collection is stunning—logically structured and thoughtfully curated. While the museum doesn’t house the most famous works, it showcases early and lesser-known pieces by incredibly renowned artists, from Picasso and Dalí to Twombly and Hockney. Moving through the exhibition, you can grasp what I find most fascinating about this period of art: the logic of its evolution, the sense of continuity, and the dialogue—or rather, the polylogue—in which artists inevitably engage.

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I also have a deep appreciation for MAAT, the Museum of Art, Architecture, and Technology. It stands out not for its permanent collection but for its temporary exhibitions. These large-scale projects merge the vision of the artist, curator, and even the architect of the museum itself, creating an immersive experience.

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The Gulbenkian Museum is a wonderful place, both for its art and its gardens. It recently opened a contemporary art wing, but what I love most about it is its tranquility—the peaceful atmosphere inside and outside, the pleasant predictability of its well-balanced yet diverse collection, and a certain phantom nostalgia it evokes. There’s also a Rembrandt painting there that I’m particularly fond of.

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And then there’s the Museu de Arte Antiga, which I love with a kind of irrational devotion. It houses Bosch’s Temptation of St. Anthony triptych, along with a remarkable collection of old paintings, sculptures, and ceramics. The museum also has a garden overlooking the port and the sunset, where opera evenings are sometimes held—a truly magical setting.​

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Is there a dialogue between the space and the art piece? For example, if I take an art piece and place it in my apartment, what will change? Will my perception of it shift? Will its relevance or meaning change? 

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This dialogue is always present and, in my belief and experience, always influences how we perceive art. In many ways, it was contemporary art that first began questioning the context in which a painting (and later, other mediums) is experienced. Before that, paintings in exhibitions were often displayed tightly packed, with little regard for their relationship to each other or the surrounding space.

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Whether an artwork loses its meaning when taken home largely depends on the viewer—after all, it is the viewer who ultimately assigns personal meaning to art. Take Maurizio Cattelan’s banana, for example: it was recently purchased and eaten by its buyer, yet rather than losing its significance, it gained even more meaning—at least for that individual.

At the same time, the perception of art can change due to simple physical factors, such as the color of the wall it hangs on or the level of lighting. Would the Mona Lisa still be as captivating if it were placed in a small communal kitchen under a yellow lightbulb? It would certainly be much harder to appreciate.​​​​

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I believe it is the viewer, buyer, or collector who gives an artwork meaning—one that is personally significant to them. That meaning can shift depending on context, just as we feel different in a vast echoing hall versus a cramped room. However, that doesn’t necessarily mean an artwork loses its essence simply by being relocated. That said, there is site-specific art, designed to exist only within the space intended by the artist, and this logic doesn’t apply in such cases.

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The MAC/CCB – Museum of Contemporary Art and Architecture Centre – states that one of its missions is "to stimulate artistic creation and promote its understanding." Can we say that it’s impossible to fully perceive art without understanding its context—its epoch, theoretical foundations, or the artist's intentions? Barnett Newman emphasized theory alongside his paintings. Does contemporary art lose significance without accompanying materials or explanations?

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There is a vast body of theory and movements in contemporary art that emphasize the importance—and even necessity—of context in understanding a work. Conceptualism, for example, is often joked about as a movement where, once you’ve heard a description of the piece, you no longer need to see it. But this logic is completely inapplicable to, say, Expressionism, where context takes a backseat to direct emotional experience.

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I would say there are two extremes: on one end, there are works—perhaps the majority—that require some degree of contextual knowledge to be fully understood. To engage with them more easily, one needs to study the historical moment, the reason for their creation, the artist’s biography, the questions they explored, and their other works. Without this context, understanding or feeling anything from these pieces can be nearly impossible. On the other end, there are works aimed purely at evoking an emotional response in the viewer, requiring no context or theory—just sensitivity and attention.

Of course, between these two poles lies a vast spectrum of artworks that seek to balance both approaches. That’s why I always recommend studying context—but at the same time, I encourage you not to deny yourself the simple pleasure of pure observation.

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How can someone unfamiliar with contemporary art systematise their museum visits to avoid aimless wandering?  Should they create a grid of 10 prominent artists or movements and link each artwork they encounter to that framework? Like a rail for the blind, "mental framework" ? 

 

Building a mental framework is undoubtedly a good idea. This can take the form of key artists, major movements in contemporary art, or—what I find even more important—an understanding of the logic behind its evolution. To develop this, I recommend reading one of the many beginner-friendly books on art, simply to get a grasp of its key milestones.

This ties back to the importance of context: having a general sense of what was happening in the world and in art during a certain period allows you to better understand a work just by looking at its date. And if you add even a basic familiarity with the intellectual currents shaping art at the time, you can start to imagine the questions the artist was exploring—bringing you closer to a deeper understanding of their work.

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Should we approach art pieces at museums chronologically, thematically, by pioneers of this or that feature, or through the lens of broader artistic ideals to make sense of it? What’s the best way to categorize art?

 

Art can be categorised in countless ways, depending on the purpose of the classification. A chronological approach, for example, is useful when studying art theory because it helps reveal the logic of its evolution—but it’s not always necessary when organizing or experiencing an exhibition.

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The way you navigate an exhibition also depends on your intent when visiting a museum. But in my view, the most effective approach is to follow your curiosity. Take a moment to look around, find something that catches your attention or stirs something within you, and start there. I don’t think it’s essential to examine every single exhibit—better to spend more time with the pieces that truly captivate you. I recommend standing in front of an artwork for at least five minutes, simply observing, feeling, and trying to understand it. Then, gradually bring in the context—look at when it was created, what themes the artist was exploring, and so on.

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I also encourage visitors not to overlook the curator’s texts, usually placed at the entrances to museum halls. After all, it’s the curator’s job to guide your journey through the exhibition, highlighting what’s most important and providing the knowledge you need along the way.

 

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​​​What are the primary criticisms of modern and contemporary art?

 

Oh, plenty—from gatekeeping and snobbery to grand-scale fraud, money laundering, and the supposed decline of civilization as a whole. Ironically, these criticisms haven’t changed in substance for over 150 years, and I doubt they’ll change anytime soon. I’m starting to suspect that even classical artists faced similar accusations!

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I think much of the criticism stems from the fact that people don’t like feeling ignorant—something that often happens when they encounter art without preparation, especially when it requires contextual understanding. In response, aggression becomes a natural defense mechanism. The real pity is that this reaction prevents them from looking around and asking why this art looks so strange and what it’s actually trying to communicate.

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Of course, the language of contemporary art is complex and can seem completely incomprehensible from the outside. But the same is true of any discipline that has developed extensively. In that sense, I see the existence of this language—and its complexity—as a very good sign for art.

 

And ultimately, the amount of criticism art receives is directly tied to people’s capacity to be curious about things they don’t yet understand.

 

How do you respond to the critique that modern art often lacks traditional craftsmanship? 
 

Lacking for what exactly? Traditional craftsmanship met the needs of its time and was successful in doing so. Today, the language of art has expanded to encompass a vast array of mediums, with new ones emerging constantly—and in my view, that’s a wonderful thing. An artist no longer needs to know how to draw, but this has been true for over a century, despite being presented as some shocking new development. In fact, I’ve heard that Rembrandt was criticized by his contemporaries for not being able to draw a perfect circle—something that supposedly made him an unworthy artist. But did he really need those circles?

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The medium undeniably shapes the message and should be chosen accordingly. If hyperrealism is the most precise and powerful way to express an artistic idea, then the artist should master it. If another medium is more fitting, then that’s what should be used. And in any case, an artist can always delegate the execution of their work—just like Damien Hirst, whose hyperrealistic paintings were created by hired specialists. Does that make him any less their author? An artist doesn’t need to know how to draw—just as they no longer need to grind pigments and mix them with oil, or prepare their own canvases.

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All that truly matters is an idea so compelling and vivid that it captivates, paired with the medium best suited to express it—whether that’s a hyperrealistic painting, a taxidermied shark, or a banana taped to a wall.

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Is contemporary art complicated or too simple?

 

I believe it’s both—and that’s one of the most beautiful things about art. It is as complex as you are willing to dive into it.

But with some rare works, I think a special kind of magic happens: they present themselves as incredibly complex equations, growing more intricate the deeper you go. Yet at a certain point, unexpectedly, you solve them—you find the answer. And it turns out to be something piercingly, astonishingly simple.

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