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Lot Essay
Spanning almost two metres in height, the present work stems from one of the twentieth century’s longest and most extraordinary conceptual projects. In 1965, the Polish artist Roman Opałka set out on a mission: to paint, by hand, the numbers from one to infinity. Across successive canvases, known as ‘details’, he inscribed his digits in careful rows, working in white paint upon dark backgrounds. From a distance, these works resemble glimmering abstract constellations, only revealing their numeric logic up close. From 1972 onwards Opałka began to add tiny additional amounts of white into his background colour, awaiting the arrival of his first white-on-white canvas. The present work takes its place just over a third of the way through the cycle, which ended with the artist’s death in 2011.
Many artists throughout the twentieth century confronted the notion of infinity. On Kawara painted the day’s date; Alighiero Boetti grappled with the chaos of the universe. Yves Klein attempted to leap into the void, while Lucio Fontana pierced the picture plane to reveal the abyss beyond. Elsewhere, Yayoi Kusama produced her Infinity Nets: seemingly endless looping webs of paint forged through hour upon hour of obsessive painting. Opałka’s project—his ‘programme’, as he called it—may be seen within this context. He, however, went much further than any of his contemporaries. His quest for infinity consumed not just his art, but every fibre of his being. ‘I took my body, my length, my existence as I have often said, as a sort of pictorial sacrifice’, he explained (R. Opałka, interview for 3 France, 1994). In tandem with his paintings, the artist also recorded himself speaking the day’s date, as well as photographing himself before and after each day’s work. As the numbers increased, his own lifespan diminished: time marched its way across his canvases, and across his body.
Opałka’s ‘details’ are full of the same contradictions and revelations that define human existence. They are ordered and logical, yet also full of visual turmoil. They are repetitive, yet each is wholly unique. They are simultaneously predictable and unpredictable, punctuated with occasional instances of human error. They are perfect and imperfect; simple yet complex; abstract and yet rife with meaning. Opałka had estimated that his first white-on-white canvas would occur at the number 7,777,777. He never lived to see the day: his last number was 5,607,249. The end of the series—like death itself—was both random and inevitable. ‘If I die today,’ Opałka once said, ‘this list of numbers, which, because it is infinite, has no time limit except for the span of my own life, will come to a logical conclusion through its very completion’ (R. Opalka, quoted in J. Roubaud, ‘Le nombre d’Opałka’, in Roman Opałka, Paris 1996, p. 34). Ultimately, for all its intricate dualities, the present work exudes a profound sense of serenity: of peace in the face of mortality, and acceptance in the face of the unknown.
Many artists throughout the twentieth century confronted the notion of infinity. On Kawara painted the day’s date; Alighiero Boetti grappled with the chaos of the universe. Yves Klein attempted to leap into the void, while Lucio Fontana pierced the picture plane to reveal the abyss beyond. Elsewhere, Yayoi Kusama produced her Infinity Nets: seemingly endless looping webs of paint forged through hour upon hour of obsessive painting. Opałka’s project—his ‘programme’, as he called it—may be seen within this context. He, however, went much further than any of his contemporaries. His quest for infinity consumed not just his art, but every fibre of his being. ‘I took my body, my length, my existence as I have often said, as a sort of pictorial sacrifice’, he explained (R. Opałka, interview for 3 France, 1994). In tandem with his paintings, the artist also recorded himself speaking the day’s date, as well as photographing himself before and after each day’s work. As the numbers increased, his own lifespan diminished: time marched its way across his canvases, and across his body.
Opałka’s ‘details’ are full of the same contradictions and revelations that define human existence. They are ordered and logical, yet also full of visual turmoil. They are repetitive, yet each is wholly unique. They are simultaneously predictable and unpredictable, punctuated with occasional instances of human error. They are perfect and imperfect; simple yet complex; abstract and yet rife with meaning. Opałka had estimated that his first white-on-white canvas would occur at the number 7,777,777. He never lived to see the day: his last number was 5,607,249. The end of the series—like death itself—was both random and inevitable. ‘If I die today,’ Opałka once said, ‘this list of numbers, which, because it is infinite, has no time limit except for the span of my own life, will come to a logical conclusion through its very completion’ (R. Opalka, quoted in J. Roubaud, ‘Le nombre d’Opałka’, in Roman Opałka, Paris 1996, p. 34). Ultimately, for all its intricate dualities, the present work exudes a profound sense of serenity: of peace in the face of mortality, and acceptance in the face of the unknown.