Is It a Good Investment? (And Should That Be Your First Question?)
The Diary of an Art Advisor
During Covid there seemed to be a glut of companies offering fractional ownership in a Warhol. You could buy one-thousandth of a soup can for the price of soup. The logic went like this: art performs well over time, you want in on that, and we’re here to make it “accessible.” But what, exactly, are you meant to do with one-thousandth of a Warhol? Art is not a share. It’s a thing you live with. A thing you look at. It spills out of its own category. The minute you reduce it to a spreadsheet cell, it starts to slip through the gaps.
Art can be a good investment. If you bought a Hockney print in 2010, you’ve likely done very well. The Mei Moses Index - the best-known tracker of repeat auction sales - reported that post-war and contemporary art delivered annualised returns of 12.6% in 2023, outpacing the S&P 500. Certain artists (Basquiat, Mitchell, Wool) have grown steadily. Certain prints - Warhols, Riley editions, Hockneys - have established reliable secondary markets. And yes, when you work with someone like me, who actually knows what they’re looking at, the odds improve dramatically.
But it is tricky. The idea of art as a passive investment - something to park your money in and watch it rise - is a mirage. It’s not just that prices fluctuate. It’s that taste does. Institutions shift. Critics turn. Collectors get distracted. And perhaps most crucially, you can’t just sell whenever you like. This is why art funds so often fail. The structure almost always includes an exit date - a moment when you’re supposed to cash out - but the market doesn’t care about your calendar. Maybe that artist has gone quiet. Maybe a flood of comparable works hit the auction rooms. Maybe no one’s buying anything this season. The date you want to sell is almost never the date you should. A fund cashing out right now would be in huge trouble.
That’s why I always advise, if you’re interested in an art fund, to make it an art fund of one. Just you. A private collection, held for you - with an eye on legacy, and a cautious hope that value might follow.
To break it down a little, in terms of risk, art comes in rough categories:
Low Risk: Established names. Hockney prints. Warhol screenprints. Lucian Freud etchings. As long as you’re buying from reputable sources - some well known galleries will double and quadruple the prices (I wish I felt comfortable naming names) so cross-check auction history - you’ll likely see modest, steady gains. They’re liquid, they’re tracked, and there’s data.
Medium Risk: Mid-career artists with growing reputations. Perhaps they’ve had a museum show, or a few good auction results. These can pay off handsomely - but also stall. You’re betting on continued momentum. To some extent, these are the most risky, as the initial buying price will be higher than with emerging artists - moving them to the category of a serious investment.
High Risk: Emerging and hyper-contemporary artists. Exciting, yes - but volatile. Here’s where it becomes both the most speculative and the most rewarding. I recommend the collectors I work with, if they want a real shot at future value, to buy 20 pieces - maybe two from each artist. That’s the portfolio. At current market rates, you might be spending £60,000–£100,000. Of those 20, one may grow exponentially (10x, 20x). Around half may double or triple. A few may not resell at all.
That’s the gamble, but when I’m helping someone build that portfolio, it’s not blind betting. It’s guided by decades of experience - as an artist, a curator, a lecturer, and an advisor. I’ve seen careers unfold in slow motion. I know when something’s built on substance and when it’s just puffed up by trend.
But even then - even then - I never promise anything. Because art doesn’t behave like stocks. It behaves like people. Quirky, brilliant, unpredictable. You need to know when to wait and you need to love what you’re living with.
What isn't usually discussed is that financial value in art is a trailing effect. It lags behind belief. You see a painting and something clicks - a whisper in the bloodstream. If enough people feel it, the market follows. Not the other way around. The best collectors I know aren’t fortune-hunters. They’re readers of signals. They look at who’s curating, who’s watching, who’s buying quietly. They sit with a painting and ask: Is there a future here? And that future isn’t always financial. Sometimes it’s psychological, emotional. To collect well is to take part in history as it unfolds.
Art, at its core, is a time capsule. It captures a moment - and then lives beyond it. The right work of art holds something resistant to the churn. And in a world spinning ever faster, that is a kind of capital. So ask what it’s worth, but also ask whether the work slows you down, or speeds you up, or shows you something unspoken that the world keeps forgetting. That is also return.
The market, meanwhile, will do what it does. It will rise and fall. It will froth and dip. There will be a feeding frenzy around some painter who’s barely dried their canvas, and silence around another who’s done the best work of their life. That’s why you don’t follow the noise - you follow the thread. You build the quiet confidence of looking. You invest in your own capacity to see. And that, in the long run, might be the most valuable thing of all.
So is art a good investment? Yes, sometimes, but that shouldn’t be your first question. Ask instead: Do I love it? Would I miss it if it left? If you get those right, everything else - money included - stands a far better chance of falling into place. And if it doesn’t? At least you’ve spent your years looking at something beautiful. You can’t say that about your ISA.
If you’re curious about starting a collection, but feel like you need help, I’d love to hear from you.
Get in touch: www.blackbirdrook.com
Follow along on Instagram for insights and available works: @blackbird_rook
I wrote my first thesis on this very topic: the economic value of art. That was twenty years ago, and at the time, I found it fascinating—almost mysterious. I was trying to understand how economic value is assigned to artworks, what drives the art market, how an artist's reputation is built. I delved into the roles of critics, galleries, collectors, and auction houses, thinking that this was the key to understanding contemporary art.
But now, after years spent experiencing art in public spaces, meeting artists, and telling stories tied to creation and context, I struggle to find meaning in that economic perspective. I can no longer see any real value in an art collection that remains locked away, invisible, inaccessible. I don’t understand those who buy artworks only to store them in vaults, or in some bank somewhere, completely out of sight—as if art were just a financial asset to be protected rather than something to be lived with.
An artwork that isn't seen, that doesn’t interact with the world, is a silenced artwork. So what’s the point in owning it? What’s the point in collecting art if you strip it of its most essential function: to be seen?