From London With Love: The Power of Abstraction
Photos by Louisa von Siemens
Dear fellow art lovers,
Saturday afternoon at the Tate Modern. My grandmother, my parents, and I wandered its industrial halls, our footsteps echoing against the white walls. Something about being there brought an old question back to the surface. Why does abstraction make people pause, tilt their heads, fall silent? That question has followed me for years. As I’ve explored exhibitions and galleries across Europe, I’ve noticed how differently people engage with abstract work compared to more traditional pieces. Take the Impressionists at the Musée d’Orsay. There, the public seems more relaxed, even nostalgic.
Curious to understand this contrast more deeply, I recently completed a course at the Courtauld Institute titled The Cultural Context of Abstraction. Though I’m more at ease with data than Dada (due to my background as a data scientist) I was intrigued. The course revealed how artists responded to the rapidly changing world of the early twentieth century: factories were rising, people were moving from the countryside into the sprawling cities, technology was changing the world around us and old belief systems were falling apart. Painting the world as it was suddenly felt inadequate. Instead, artists attempted to show the unseen: emotions, spiritual realms, even a universal truth. They didn’t reject meaning, as many people assume, they reimagined it.
This idea stayed with me as we explored the galleries. Take Piet Mondrian’s Composition C: strong black perpendicular and horizontal lines filled with pure white or primary colours. Fun fact: no green in sight, as Mondrian detested green. The painting exuded a great calmness, and I could see how, for Mondrian, it represented a blueprint for balance in a broken world. Next came Kasimir Malevich, who let his shapes float in white space. Looking at his Dynamic Suprematism, I felt the complete rejection of naturalism: no horizon, no perspective, no recognisable objects. Just the sensation of hovering above the world, viewing the abstract forms detached from gravity and convention.
Then, a detour eastward and inward. The modular repetition mixed with Islamic geometry in Saloua Choucair’s Composition with Two Ovals had a quieter but still powerful effect. Standing in front of it, I finally understood what she meant when she called abstraction a kind of distillation. And Ibrahim El-Salahi’s calligraphic abstractions in Reborn Sounds of Childhood Dreams I? They really absorbed me. It felt like a piece of music your body remembers but your mind can’t quite place.
And just when we thought abstraction had established itself as silent and geometric, it got louder and more personal. Across the Atlantic, Jackson Pollock’s Yellow Islands declared itself. Drips and splatters, movement and motion. It was energy, not composition. Across the gallery, Lee Krasner’s Gothic Landscape turned that energy inward. Standing in front of it, I could feel the artist’s grief, painting after her husband Jackson Pollock had died in a car crash. Finally, Mark Rothko. The Seagram Murals. The room is dimmed. Deep reds, soft blacks. I didn’t cry, as some viewers reportedly do, but I did feel absorbed by the vast planes of colour that suggested, rather than expressed, emotion.
So — what is abstraction? Not a style but a strategy. A way to reckon with a rapidly changing world. Each of these artists used abstraction differently — structured, expressive, spiritual, or emotional — but all asked the same thing: slow down and really look. In science, we’re taught to observe carefully, to measure. Abstract art requires the same habits but adds something else: acceptance of ambiguity.
I didn’t leave the Tate with conclusions. But surrounded by colour, form, and thoughtful silence, I did leave with a different kind of understanding. Not verbal. Not analytical. Just felt.
With love from the South Bank,
Louisa