Perhaps it’s appropriate to start with an apology about the word in my title. Hubris isn’t exactly coffee shop conversation
read more Hubris in the art world
Perhaps it’s appropriate to start with an apology about the word in my title. Hubris isn’t exactly coffee shop conversation material. It sounds ancient and maybe pretentious, like something from a dusty philosophy textbook. But it’s the most precise word I know for a particular kind of overconfidence that sometimes creeps into our cultural spaces. Simply put, hubris means dangerous pride, the kind of arrogance that makes us think we are above rules, above doubt, and above everyone else. In ancient Greek stories, hubris is what brings down kings and heroes. They overreach, ignore warnings, and lose touch with reality. Their hubris leads them to nemesis (another Greek word). Today, we can spot similar patterns in some corners of the art world: in exhibitions that feel more like intellectual puzzles than invitations to experience something beautiful or meaningful, in criticism so wrapped in jargon that it excludes rather than illuminates, and in market speculation that treats profound human expression as just another commodity.
Something subtle but corrosive has taken hold in the art world. There is hubris in the system. I can’t find a better word than hubris to describe what I see. That old Greek word (hybris)—used to describe the overreaching pride of tragic heroes—might seem like a strange diagnosis for the cultural sector. But the longer one observes the art world from inside or outside, the more accurate it becomes. It’s not a scandal, not a crime, not even a mistake. It’s a tone, an attitude, a certain way of speaking, curating, collecting, writing, and even looking. A way that says, “You just wouldn’t understand.” Remember that children’s story about the vain king who’s tricked into believing he’s wearing magical clothes invisible to the ignorant? Everyone pretends to see the suit until a child states the obvious: “He’s not wearing anything!” The art world sometimes resembles that court. Critics, collectors, and curators praise work we may not understand because everyone else seems to be doing the same. We are afraid to be the one who asks, “But is this actually any good?”
The art world’s hubris manifests in several interconnected ways that reveal deep assumptions about cultural authority and value creation. Perhaps I am exaggerating the problem, but I would say that, in one way or another, hubris in the art world takes many forms: curatorial, market, academic, critical, technological, and institutional. There is curatorial hubris, where major institutions operate with the assumption that they can single-handedly determine what constitutes important art and that their theoretical framing is more significant than the works themselves. Some celebrated biennials exemplify this, presenting extensive, thesis-driven exhibitions that seem to exist primarily to validate curatorial vision rather than to serve the art or audience. Exhibitions become platforms for intellectual performance rather than spaces for encounter. Then there’s market hubris. The art market has created an ecosystem where speculation increasingly drives aesthetic judgement. When galleries inflate prices for emerging artists, or when collectors treat art purely as an asset class, there’s an underlying assumption that market mechanisms can accurately reflect artistic significance. Don’t get me wrong—artists deserve to make a living, and collectors play a vital role in supporting culture. But when price becomes the primary indicator of value, something essential gets lost.
Academic hubris appears in art schools and MFA programs that operate with the assumption that they can systematically produce significant artists through theoretical training. There is sometimes an overconfidence in the ability to intellectualise creativity, leading to generations of artists who can articulate concepts brilliantly but struggle to make compelling visual work. The emphasis on artist statements and theoretical justification can overshadow the development of visual intelligence and craft. Yet, not everything is negative; I have also seen these same programs nurture extraordinary talents, providing artists with critical thinking skills and historical context that enriches their work immeasurably. The best programs understand that theory and practice must dance together, not compete. Perhaps because of academic hubris there is widespread critical hubris—the belief that complexity of language guarantees depth of thought. Art criticism has increasingly retreated into specialised language that seems designed more to demonstrate the critic’s sophistication than to illuminate the work. Walk through certain contemporary art exhibitions, and you will encounter wall texts that begin like this: “In this site-specific intervention, the artist interrogates notions of post-industrial detritus and performative fragility.” If that sentence makes you feel small, you are not alone. When criticism becomes more about the critic’s cleverness than the artwork’s presence, it ceases to be a bridge and becomes a wall.
Technological hubris appears in the embrace of new media with assumptions about progress and relevance that may be unfounded. The NFT boom demonstrated how the art world can become intoxicated with technological novelty, as if new distribution methods automatically create new forms of artistic significance. There is sometimes a belief that engaging with cutting-edge technology inherently makes art more important or forward-thinking. Those of us working in museums contribute to institutional hubris. We tend to operate as if our imprimatur alone can create artistic significance. The phenomenon of “museum art,” work that seems designed primarily for institutional validation rather than genuine artistic exploration, reflects this dynamic. There is sometimes an assumption that institutional backing automatically translates to cultural importance.
What makes all these forms of hubris dangerous is that they eventually alienate the very people art should touch. When artistic and cultural spaces begin to take pride in being inaccessible, they stop serving the public and start performing for themselves. The great works of art in any tradition—classical, modern, African, or Islamic—often share a common trait: they were made with care. This care extends beyond mere technical proficiency and encompasses consideration for meaning, materials, the viewer, and the context. Care, not cleverness. But in some corners of today’s art world, it seems that not caring is the highest form of cool. Irony replaces sincerity. Spectacle replaces substance. Ideas are presented as if they should be accepted without question—not because they are persuasive, but because they’ve been exhibited, purchased, or published.
There’s an underlying thread connecting these forms of hubris: an overconfidence in the art world’s ability to generate meaning and value through its own internal systems. Sometimes, it seems as if we’re losing sight of art’s fundamental function as a form of human communication and experience. When the machinery of the art world becomes more important than the art itself, that’s when hubris has truly taken hold. There’s sometimes an attitude that if viewers don’t “get it,” the problem lies with their lack of sophistication rather than with the artwork’s capacity for communication or accessibility. Many visitors walk through museum galleries or impressive art spaces feeling like outsiders. They see a pile of broken tiles or a looped video of someone screaming and wonder if the joke is on them. Some leave confused, even angry. Others don’t return at all. Is it their fault? Are they just too “uncultured” to get it? That’s my favourite defence. But maybe the question is deeper: why have we come to accept confusion as proof of sophistication and detachment as evidence of genius?
Part of the problem lies in how we talk about artists. We still cling to the myth of the lone genius, the misunderstood visionary who sees what others can’t and needs no one’s approval. This romantic image, inherited from the 19th century in Europe, still haunts us in Africa and the whole world. It makes it easy to excuse arrogance as eccentricity or to treat incoherence as depth. The artists I most admire—whether working in Lagos, Nsukka, or somewhere else—share a common trait: they make work with care. Not just technical skill, but care for meaning, for materials, for the viewer, and for context. Care, not cleverness. Because there is a fine line between boldness and bluster. When the work demands interpretation but refuses to offer even a flicker of connection, whether emotional, aesthetic, or intellectual, it stops being art and becomes a kind of test: one you either pass (by nodding wisely) or fail (by asking honest questions). This hubris doesn’t stop with the artists. Museums, galleries, curators, and critics—we all contribute to the atmosphere of cultural condescension. Instead of acting as bridges between artworks and the public, we sometimes act as rigorous gatekeepers, controlling access to meaning.
Art was never supposed to be easy. It can be mysterious, uncomfortable, demanding, and enjoyable. But there’s a difference between challenging and dismissive. The best art speaks from one human being to another, creating moments of recognition, wonder, or understanding that transcend the machinery of the art world. I am not arguing for populism or reducing art to decoration. Art can still be ambitious, challenging, and even strange. But it must never lose its capacity to connect, to surprise, to move us in ways we didn’t expect. The art world is full of people who genuinely love what they do, who believe in art’s power to change how we see and feel. When that passion gets tangled up with professional ambition or institutional pressure, problems arise. But the passion itself—that’s what keeps bringing us back, keeps us hoping for moments when art transcends its own context and simply works. Maybe that’s enough to build on. But for all the hubris in the system to go away, the art world must first look in the mirror and not admire what it sees but ask, honestly, are we still talking to anyone but ourselves?
