When we talk about art, we inevitably end up talking about emotion, about subjectivity, about the other, but also about ourselves. Art remains a link between feeling and thinking, a necessary bridge that should constantly remind us how important the balance between the two is in building something lasting. However, along with technological advancement and the growing emphasis on intellectualization, a “cost of progress” has emerged, which we feel in various ways: the relegation of emotion to the background and the loss of an authentic relationship with our own affective dimension. Moreover, in the attempt to recover this distance between ourselves and ourselves, a tendency toward emotional polarization often arises, and in the absence of clear tools for understanding, we constantly oscillate between various emotional extremes.

Despite this intellectualization, in contemporary art, emotion remains an essential criterion in the appreciation expressed by the public, most often based on the deep need for self-rediscovery. And this rediscovery is all the more valuable the more complete it is: through art that also reflects emotional aspects, we can see ourselves more integrally. Furthermore, art continues to attract through its halo effect, based on a simple principle — that of association. Thus, these two effects produce a result with moralizing value: the halo and emotion function as impulses that can direct our aspirations toward higher zones of our own being. 

Emotion as Artistic Intention  

If we look from the perspective of the author’s intention, there are numerous examples where, even declaratively, artists state that they want to evoke a certain emotion in the viewer. Thus, emotion shifts from the area of a mere result to that of an expected outcome.

A Romanian example in this sense is Mircea Cantor, an internationally recognized artist for his critiques, especially those targeting the negative aspects of globalization. He generally uses ready-made objects in his installations, managing to create emotion by approaching his subjects in a less conventional manner or through creative associations. One such creation is Breath Separator, a glass wall made of panels bearing the artist’s fingerprints. The barbed wire in the installation delineates and marks off spaces, its role here being that of an element signaling the transition from a figurative space to a real one. The juxtaposition of these elements produces a personally hostile effect, and absence is signaled precisely through the presence of those fingerprints. As Marina Abramović also said: “Art must make you feel before it makes you think,” something she underlines in many of her installations and performances.

Another artist who aims to “fill the viewer with love and fear simultaneously” is Yayoi Kusama. Through her famous Infinity Mirror Rooms, she immerses the viewer in spaces where, through infinite reflections, they are led into a state of confusion caused by the lack of horizon and the seemingly boundless space. From a potential affective ecstasy brought on by the surrounding lights to the existential anxiety of this overwhelming infinite space, Yayoi Kusama interacts directly with the emotions of her audience. 

Affective Aesthetics and the Manipulation of Emotion 

The difficult part when discussing works that address the affective dimension is distinguishing between genuinely moving pieces and those that attempt to instrumentalize emotion for the sake of capitalizing on attention. Given the inherently personal and subjective nature of this dimension, it is very easy to understand why such an approach would be of interest to cultural-artistic agents.

An example of positive use of this aesthetic can be observed in the paintings of Șerban Savu. Undoubtedly, the melancholy in his canvases is felt immediately—especially if we, as viewers, resonate with the spaces he depicts. The rigorous composition, distanced perspective, and briefly suggested details contribute to the overall calm of the paintings, which evoke a nostalgic-reflective emotion, rather than effervescent feelings. These attributes have also led to the artist’s success nationally and internationally, as seen in the fact that Romania’s pavilion was represented by him at the Vienna Art Biennale in 2024.

At the opposite pole, we can discuss controversial works that have shocked and continue to do so, such as those by German artist Hermann Nitsch. His performances, in which he used animal carcasses and real blood in religious contexts, are well known—intended to take the viewer through disgust toward a possible catharsis. Despite criticism, public outrage, and even lawsuits, his fame has benefited and he remains an artist featured in numerous galleries, museums, and collections worldwide. This manipulation of emotion through representations that may seem blasphemous, through direct treatment of the abject, and through the materials used, clearly challenges norms, employing the audience’s emotional capital and consolidating the artist’s notoriety. 

Emotion is always present when we talk about art, and its instrumentalization remains a constant possibility for artists. Abundant emotion can be found, for example, in the works of Daniela Grapă, known not for manipulating feelings, but for bringing them to the surface and confronting the viewer. In many of her works, the emotions are strong and evocative; the shades of purple suggest a complex creative process with a disturbing and magnetic result. Daniela Grapă’s paintings have their own gravity, our gaze and emotions being caught in their orbit. 

In a time when technology, concept, and market seem to dictate the rhythm of art, emotion remains the condensation point where the viewer becomes more than a witness: they become a participant in their own discovery. We have seen how artists can amplify, heal, or manipulate this resource—from the melancholic rigor of Șerban Savu to the affective exposure in Daniela Grapă’s canvases, and how, at the other extreme, hollow spectacle seeks quick applause. Authentic emotion is not a special effect, but a subtle architecture of sign, material, and memory that endures precisely because it does not negotiate with time. Therefore, the real question is not whether we still need emotion in art, but whether we still have the courage to let ourselves be changed by it. And the answer lies, inevitably, in our affective synapses. 

Ph.D. Researcher Andrei FĂȘIE