An essential concept in the art market is the multiplying factor—also known as the artist’s coefficient. This number is used to calculate the price of an artist’s work. For paintings, the formula is simple: add the length and width of the canvas and multiply by the factor: F(L + W) = P. Smaller works, therefore, end up being more expensive per square centimetre.

At the same time, this factor gives galleries a convenient way to assess an artist’s market value—essentially, a measure of success within the art world. The painting presented here reflects my current coefficient, which I calculated based on my larger works. For me, however, this number primarily represents the price I need to part with my art.

The art market differs from most others because it deals in originals—unique objects rather than interchangeable commodities. The relationship between supply and demand is more immediate, and in a way, the artist becomes the commodity—or rather, the brand—on which the value of the artworks depends.

In this sense, the coefficient becomes a kind of grade. At school, I always disliked being graded. Even when my marks weren’t bad, I found it humiliating to be reduced to a number. That feeling was one of the reasons I turned to art in the first place. Being an artist seemed like a refuge from constant comparison, a space where only I could define the value of my work. Later, I realised that if I wanted to make a living as an artist, I also had to navigate other systems of value. Capitalism permeates everything: the need to measure, rank, and organise life into hierarchies seems inescapable.

See a video presentation here.

This work is part of the short series Art Market with my previous works, #484 No Deal and #483 A Good Deal. Works that comment on art as a commodity.

Perception is an interpretation and thus consists of language in the same manner as understanding words. To the mind, a word is always also an image. In that sense, understanding words function no differently than normal perception. When we see, images are constructed inside the mind. We never perceive reality objectively or in itself.
However, to use language, we have to speak or write it. We have to realize it. Nothing ever communicates without being inscribed into a matter of some sort. But how words are inserted into reality affects how we perceive them. Thus, reality itself seeps into language. There exists no clear or unmediated communication. Matter adds to the message. Because which matter we choose to communicate through and how we shape it reflects on who we are, it can reveal unconscious or hidden meanings.
 
Humans inscribed the first written words in stone or clay. One of the purposes was to save them for the future, to protect them from the volatility of time. To speak or to write is always, to some extent, an act of power. The receiver must initially submit his or her attention to the message. No matter how insignificant, its meaning will always, in some way, change the receiver forever.
 
There is a constant tension between language and reality as matter. The human subject is defined by an individual will, as opposed to the strict causality of nature. This will strive to be expressed through language. Maybe self-awareness is a result of language use. Language as a way for the ego to invent itself, to inscribe itself into the world. It is no coincidence that many of the first examples of texts are curses, prayers, laws, or inventories — different ways of trying to influence and master reality.

Res Ipsa is a compilation of works made by an act shaping the filler once it is prepared inside the frame. The works thus function as a recording device and give a statement of the event taking place while the filler was still wet.

Res Ipsa is Latin for "the thing itself" and is part of the juridical term "Res ipsa loquitur" (the thing speaks for itself), used when an injury or accident in itself clearly shows who is responsible, such as an instrument left inside a body after surgery.