At this point, the esteemed reader may permit a small, almost heretical question: does art always have to be large?
Anyone wandering through contemporary galleries might easily get that impression. Large spaces, large walls, large formats, large prices—and not infrequently, large egos. One could almost formulate it as a mathematical equation: size does not equal significance, but size does generate attention. Or, less politely: large room plus large wall plus large format equals a large price and a large ego. The art world would likely never officially confirm such a formula. It rarely contradicts it either.
And yet, in the Louvre, the Mona Lisa stands behind protective glass, surrounded by crowds, and with its modest 77 by 53 centimeters remains rather restrained in stature. The expectations of the public are often larger than the painting itself. Leonardo da Vinci seems unimpressed by this. He appears to have understood that size and impact are not necessarily the same thing.
Quite different is The Kiss by Gustav Klimt. This work demands space. It lives through presence, surface, gold, ornament, and an almost sacral claim it makes upon the viewer. One does not simply stand before it as before a small portrait—one enters its sphere. It is no longer a conversation, but an encounter that asserts itself.
This is where the real question begins: when does a work require intimacy, and when does it demand monumentality? A small image forces proximity. One has to approach it. The gaze becomes focused, almost confidential. The work speaks quietly and does not tolerate a casual glance from afar. Miniatures, devotional images, many Dutch cabinet paintings, or intimate portraits derive their strength precisely from this—they demand a nearly private relationship between work and viewer.
A large work, on the other hand, allows no restraint. It claims space, distance, and physical presence. Once a work reaches or exceeds roughly human scale, something shifts: it is no longer merely seen, but experienced. It becomes a counterpart. Standing before a work by Mark Rothko, one does not stand in front of color, but within it. Large works alter the posture of the body. They compel not only seeing, but taking a position.
This is a particularly delicate issue in photography. Many photographers confuse large format with meaning. An image that performs well on Instagram is suddenly enlarged to 150 centimeters, as if the printer could transform composition into art. This works about as reliably as hope as a tax strategy.
And yet, it would be naive to pretend that size plays no role in the art market. In photography in particular, it does—significantly. Rhein II by Andreas Gursky became one of the most expensive photographs in the world not only because of its conceptual rigor, but also because of its physical presence. Over three meters in width is not a minor detail. The work functions not as a landscape print, but as an architectural statement.
The same applies to Cindy Sherman, Jeff Wall, and Gregory Crewdson. Their works consciously operate with monumentality. Large formats shift photography away from the proximity of magazines or family albums into the sphere of the autonomous artwork. Richard Avedon understood this as well: his large-scale portraits are powerful not because they are bigger, but because size generates psychological force. A face at life size is no longer a depiction—it is a confrontation.
The art market appreciates such confrontations. Large works perform better at fairs, carry more weight on gallery walls, and signal prestige in collectors’ homes. A work that occupies an entire wall asserts importance before anyone has even understood what it is about. Square meters are sometimes the most honest language of the market. This does not mean that size creates quality. It only means that market and art do not always speak the same language. The market favors monumentality for the same reasons hoteliers favor chandeliers: it impresses quickly.
For that reason, a photographer must be brutally honest. Not every image deserves this stage. Large prints do not rescue weak ideas—they magnify their problems. Retouching errors do not become poetic when enlarged, and flawed lighting does not gain dignity through additional centimeters. A weak image remains a weak image—only more expensive.
There are, however, works that largely escape this question. My own belong to this category. Not out of vanity, but for a simple reason: they do not function in small formats. What remains is not a condensed image, but a dark patch with a vague suggestion of a body. These works rely on subtle gradations within shadow, on transitions that do not reveal themselves at first glance, on a tension between visibility and withdrawal. These nuances require space. Without it, they collapse. Size is not a means of enhancement here, but the condition that makes the image readable at all.
For this reason, a series of virtual exhibition spaces has been created on this site. Under the section Exhibitiones, several walkable galleries can be found—not as a playful addition, but as an experimental setting. How does a work change with scale? When does it become monumental, when intimate, when does it lose itself, when does it gain presence? These spaces are part of the work itself. Each image has been deliberately placed in a specific dimension—not as decoration, but as a conceptual decision.
One particular room within these galleries bears the name Extra Umbrae. It is not an appendix, nor an archive, and certainly not a place for works that “did not make it.” Quite the opposite. Here are works that are personally significant to me, yet consciously kept outside the system of Artis Umbrae.
Where Artis Umbrae follows strict rules—black and white, reduction, a defined approach to light and shadow—Extra Umbrae allows for a different freedom. Color, alternative lighting approaches, echoes of classical Hollywood staging, boudoir and portrait work—images that are more direct, more open, sometimes more immediate in their effect. Scale is treated differently here as well. Formats up to three meters are not an exception, but part of the investigation. Not every work demands such dimensions, but some deliberately push toward them—not to claim significance, but to test it.
I invite you to enter these spaces. Not simply to look at images, but to observe what happens to them. Move closer. Step back. Change your perspective. Compare. When does an image begin to speak? When does it fall silent? When does it become too large for itself?
The essential question is not: how large may a work be? But rather: how large must it be to remain true?
The answer will not be found in this text.
It must be found in seeing.