The rise of Swedish artist Hilma af Klint from obscurity to global fame has created an unprecedented cultural phenomenon, but it has also sparked fierce debates about authenticity, collaboration, and who has the right to control her artistic legacy. As her abstract paintings gain recognition as groundbreaking works that predate Kandinsky's contributions to modern art, scholars and family members are locked in bitter disputes over what she truly believed, how her work was created, and who should have authority over her posthumous reputation.
The transformation began in February 2013 at Stockholm's Moderna Museet, where "Hilma af Klint: A Pioneer of Abstraction" drew record crowds and fundamentally changed perceptions of art history. Among the attendees was Kurt Almqvist, a CEO of a nonprofit foundation who had previously dismissed contemporary art as "smashed bottles and things like that." He found himself captivated by af Klint's enormous canvases filled with eggs, petals, and celestial bodies painted a century earlier.
The exhibition attracted an unusually diverse audience that extended far beyond typical art enthusiasts. Museum employees diplomatically described "other kinds of people" attending, including dancers in flowing costumes, self-proclaimed psychics, and a Finnish man who visited daily for weeks without speaking to anyone. Many female visitors reported experiencing mysterious physical sensations, including warmth spreading through their bodies and uncontrollable urges to weep.
Art critics hailed the show as extraordinary, emphasizing that af Klint had begun creating nonrepresentational works in 1906, four years before Kandinsky's pioneering attempts. The cultural impact was immediate and widespread. Sweden's postal service issued stamps featuring her paintings, her work replaced decorative Buddha statues in Stockholm real estate listings, and IKEA launched a collaboration featuring her designs.
The story of af Klint's life reads like a fairy tale, complete with noble birth, mystical visions, and hidden artistic treasures. Born in 1862 to an aristocratic family in a palace-turned-military academy outside Stockholm, she began experiencing unexplained visions of empty coffins and floating numbers as a young woman. Initially trained as a conventional artist, she painted portraits, landscapes, and botanical illustrations before becoming dissatisfied with representing reality as others perceived it.
In her early thirties, af Klint joined a spiritual circle called the Five, where members received messages from spirits and the deceased. These astral beings allegedly instructed her to paint not the material world but a truer version that lay beyond physical reality. She devoted herself to covering canvases with images of hidden forces rendered in strange shapes and vivid colors. When she later showed this work to Rudolf Steiner, the Austrian occultist who founded anthroposophy, she claimed he warned her that the world wasn't ready for such revelations.
According to the established narrative, this discouragement caused af Klint to stop painting for eight years. When she resumed, she worked at an unprecedented scale and intensity but decreed that her works should remain hidden for twenty years after her death, protecting them from ignorant audiences until humanity was prepared to understand their significance.
Louise Belfrage, a scholar and colleague of Almqvist's, described the appeal of this story: "You have this woman genius, a prophet, making abstract paintings before Kandinsky? I mean, come on! It's just so attractive." She spoke with the guilty pleasure of someone caught stealing cake frosting, admitting the narrative was "almost irresistible."
Inspired by their encounter with af Klint's work, Almqvist and Belfrage organized seminars through the Axel and Margaret Ax:son Johnson Foundation for Public Benefit across multiple countries. These interdisciplinary gatherings featured scholars discussing everything from early-twentieth-century scientific breakthroughs to occult philosophy, with af Klint serving as a lens through which to examine a remote historical era.
The 2018 Guggenheim exhibition "Hilma af Klint: Paintings for the Future" marked what German historian Julia Voss called a canonization by "the Vatican of abstraction." Frank Lloyd Wright's spiral rotunda seemed prophetically designed to house her works, which af Klint had once envisioned in a similar temple-like structure. The show became one of the Guggenheim's most visited exhibitions, with her paintings becoming permanent fixtures on social media.
Roberta Smith of The New York Times wrote that af Klint's paintings "definitively explode the notion of modernist abstraction as a male project." Over the past decade, her life has inspired historical fiction, children's books, graphic novels, operas, documentaries, a biopic, virtual reality experiences, and a 600-square-foot permanent mosaic in New York City's subway system.
Voss sees this phenomenon as embodying art history's promise that "death can confer the glory that life refuses, that what looks like failure might in fact be redemption deferred." She finds it soothing to witness something "so great and so beautiful that was not successful in its own time" finally receiving recognition.
However, Almqvist has increasingly come to believe that af Klint's resurrection has also produced dangerous fantasies. Over thirteen years of research, his role has evolved from herald to complicator of her story. He now admits his own writing contained numerous mistakes and warns that when dealing with a figure like af Klint, where "there are just so many holes to fill in, it opens things up for, well, conspiracy theories, quite frankly."
After af Klint died in 1944 from injuries sustained falling off a streetcar, her nephew Erik af Klint inherited her massive archive of more than 1,200 paintings and drawings plus 124 notebooks. Erik, a Navy admiral, initially wanted to protect the work from unworthy audiences, writing in 1946 that it should only be seen by "people who understand its value and can feel reverence for it," explicitly excluding journalists.
Uncertain how to proceed with the enormous corpus of material, Erik consulted various scholars and museums. His correspondence reveals contradictory impulses: sometimes expressing desire to generate public interest, other times insisting the work should only be displayed "within closed societies" and warning that public release "can never lead to anything good."
In 1972, Erik established the Hilma af Klint Foundation with statutes prohibiting the sale of her most significant works to safeguard them for "spiritual seekers." The foundation's board was required to be chaired by an af Klint family member, with remaining seats occupied by members of the Anthroposophical Society of Sweden.
For nearly four decades, the foundation operated peacefully while af Klint remained a New Age obscurity rather than an art world sensation. Even as some works appeared in prominent international exhibitions beginning in the late 1980s, she primarily interested Swedish art critics rather than global audiences.
Everything changed in 2011 when Erik's son Johan took over as foundation chairman. An international financier, Johan approached the role zealously, claiming that when he was three years old, Hilma had instructed him to help protect her work. He made himself available to curators, scholars, and journalists, often personally retrieving visitors from train stations and driving them to the archives. Under his leadership, the foundation arranged the IKEA collaboration and loaned rotating selections of paintings to Sweden's largest bank.
Tensions immediately arose between Johan and the anthroposophist board majority over how and where to display the collection. The anthroposophists wanted a new, specially designed building in Ytterjärna, 45 minutes from Stockholm, where Sweden's Anthroposophical Society is centered. Johan strongly objected, claiming this didn't align with Hilma's wishes based on his reading of her writings.
In 2010, board member Anders Kumlander, former secretary-general of the Swedish Anthroposophical Society, wrote to regulatory authorities without consulting the family, outlining plans to sell selected works to finance museum construction. When Johan discovered this, he felt the anthroposophist board members wanted to exploit af Klint's name for their organization's benefit. He countered by proposing to donate the collection to the Swedish state for housing at Moderna Museet.
Neither side succeeded. The board initiated legal proceedings to remove Johan as chair while he tried to remove Kumlander. Leadership changed repeatedly, museum plans collapsed, and the foundation's very purpose became an ontological puzzle: Was it an art-historical trust meant to disseminate creative works or a religious one meant to protect and propagate a spiritual mission?
During the COVID-19 lockdown at his Art Nouveau manor near the Baltic Sea, Almqvist undertook the monumental task of reading af Klint's complete journals—26,000 pages that few had ever fully examined. The two-year process proved "disorienting and fundamentally unpleasant," filled with "evasions, contradictions, abstractions, abrupt tense shifts, and unattributed dialogue."
The notebooks contradicted the martyrlike portrait created by Erik af Klint in his 1967 confidential biography, which described Hilma as radiating "purity and moral highness" while delivering messages "from a higher world which nobody was willing to hear." Almqvist found instead someone "aggressive, self-determined, daunting" who "lacked empathy" and was "not generous, not sentimental, not very sympathetic generally."
af Klint's writings revealed paranoia and grandiosity, with warnings about "invisible enemies" who were "everywhere" and "able to insinuate themselves into your thoughts." She accused friends of being parasites with "arrogant perception," displaying suspicion even toward those who shared her esoteric pursuits.
Almqvist's research challenged multiple aspects of the established narrative. Rather than living an ascetic life, estate inventories showed af Klint had substantial savings and likely received her mother's widow's pension. Her sexuality had been under-covered, with archival evidence indicating multiple romantic and sexual relationships with women over many decades, including a gymnastics instructor who lodged with her for years and wrote about sharing beds and kissing.
While embraced as a feminist, Almqvist argued she didn't participate in intellectual or collective movements of her time, despite having opportunities through her suffragist sister. He criticized recent scholarship, including a doctoral dissertation arguing her paintings commented on women's domestic labor, noting the author didn't know Swedish and had misattributed Biblical metaphors.
The most consequential question concerned whether af Klint was truly an anthroposophist. Erik's 1967 document claimed she was "deeply moved by the teachings of Rudolf Steiner," while his son Johan argued she eventually turned away from the group. The answer would affect not only interpretation of her work but also foundation management, since non-anthroposophist status might give the family grounds to claim greater control.
In spring 2021, Almqvist visited Ytterjärna's Anthroposophical Society cultural center, a massive violet structure resembling "a grounded spacecraft." Having grown up with an anthroposophist mother, he felt qualified to navigate their culture of "spiritual science," though he remained skeptical of practices like a friend "researching the color orange for forty years" by "painting in orange."
In a hidden vault, Almqvist discovered documentation proving af Klint joined the Anthroposophical Society on October 12, 1920, and remained a member until death. This seemed to vindicate the foundation's structure, but days later, he received a call about additional material requiring examination.
Returning to Ytterjärna, Almqvist climbed a ladder to a dim annex where he found a birch bark box labeled "Anna Cassel" containing about sixty notebooks. Cassel had been a member of the Five and, according to af Klint's journals, her lover. The discovery of Cassel's writings was "like opening a door" that let in light, allowing Almqvist to "suddenly see things in perspective."
Cassel's journals made Almqvist doubt the veracity of Hilma's self-portrayal as a leader with unique relationships to higher intelligences. He theorized that af Klint had deliberately destroyed writings from the period of her most ambitious works because the paintings hadn't been made by her alone—they were collaborative efforts with her esoterically inclined friends, most significantly Anna Cassel.
If true, this revelation fundamentally undermined af Klint's legacy as a sole conduit for higher powers channeling through canvas. Instead, she became one of many engaged in collaborative creation with all the logistical and interpersonal friction such endeavors involve.
In 2023, Almqvist and Daniel Birnbaum, former Moderna Museet director, edited "The Saga of the Rose," a monograph devoted to Cassel. It included an essay by Swedish historian Hedvig Martin whose findings mirrored Almqvist's research. Martin maintained that "The Paintings for the Temple," considered af Klint's magnum opus, resulted not from a single artist's efforts but from collaboration between af Klint, Cassel, and other members of the Five.
Artforum called the revelation "astonishing" and suggested af Klint scholarship was "on the brink of some radical changes regarding attribution and authorship." Martin had suspected Cassel's involvement for years but felt "too young and too insecure to make any large assumptions" until 2020.
During pandemic quarantine in Amsterdam, Martin cross-referenced each 1906-1907 journal entry with artworks made during those years. Focusing on "Primordial Chaos," which marks the beginning of "The Paintings for the Temple," she discovered explicit attributions in the journals: "A[nna] was instructed to paint it" and "A[nna] may perform this, be passive."
Martin identified stylistic differences between the two women, describing af Klint's brushwork as "notably drier and more expressive" while Cassel's was "thicker and smoother." She hypothesized af Klint created about twelve paintings in the series while Cassel created fourteen. "It was not just that they channeled messages together or had ideas about some sort of collaboration—they actually collaborated," Martin explained.
These attributions were among the most straightforward texts in the sprawling, incomprehensible writings. Martin wondered why others hadn't noticed them before, suggesting "People claim they've read the notebooks, but they haven't always."
Martin admitted her work "was not very fun always" because af Klint "had become such a darling." The revised story she was telling was less appealing than the established narrative. When people complained that male artists all had assistants, asking why collaboration mattered, Martin responded, "my feeling is that it's important because it's the truth."
Days before Martin's research was published, Johan sent her a detailed email arguing that while af Klint may have occasionally received help, "this does NOT mean that Hilma af Klint was not the person who, through her good contacts with the spirits, was central to the creation of the works." He pleaded: "I ask you from the bottom of my heart, do not exaggerate the involvement of Anna Cassel and the other women—to the detriment of Hilma af Klint."
Johan had spent twelve years directly managing his great-aunt's legacy, initially working to popularize her work but later regretting some efforts. He began writing his own book, using "symbolic works" to refer to af Klint's paintings and lamenting they had ever been called "art." He viewed them as "precise representations of what she visualized in the astral plane," making the "abstract" label a form of blasphemy.
Meanwhile, allegations of profit-seeking schemes multiplied. In 2020, Kumlander purchased one of two "Tree of Knowledge" series from a Swiss anthroposophical institution, reportedly claiming to act on behalf of Sweden's prospective af Klint museum. By fall 2021, the series hung in David Zwirner's Upper East Side gallery before being sold to a private museum outside Washington, D.C.
The Swiss institution's board members wrote Kumlander expressing betrayal, believing they had sold to "an anthroposophical friend" acquiring the series for a like-minded institution. They called the transaction "a mockery and a slap in the face" while requesting a donation.
In 2022, Zwirner traveled to Stockholm for a meeting about becoming the foundation's official gallerist, but new chairman Erik (Johan's nephew) postponed the meeting and leaked details to The Guardian, calling the deal "a plundering and a hostile takeover" violating foundation statutes. Zwirner called the charges "absurd."
Another controversial scheme involved Acute Art, a London virtual reality company directed by Birnbaum, creating digital versions of "The Paintings for the Temple" works in conjunction with Stolpe publishing company. These would be auctioned as NFTs on a platform launched by musician Pharrell Williams, with promotional language promising collectors could "secure your piece of history."
The af Klint family was outraged by what they saw as shameless commercialization. Ulrika af Klint, Johan's niece and former foundation chair, claimed the board hadn't properly authorized the project and full proceeds never reached the foundation. Another family member demanded NFT cancellation on Twitter, telling reporters the paintings "were never meant for anyone to own."
When Erik replaced Ulrika as chair, he filed a police report accusing other board members of collaborating on deals that would enrich them rather than the foundation. In March, Sweden's largest newspaper published a story about ongoing foundation fracas under the headline "Hilma af Klint's art could be hidden from public view—in a temple."
Erik, a rheumatologist and devout Christian, filed a court petition seeking board member removal, arguing they had neglected duties. He claimed af Klint's paintings were never meant for public display and that every dissemination attempt—books, exhibitions, merchandise—violated both Hilma's wishes and Swedish Foundation Act governing nonprofits.
He believed curation itself was akin to profane use of sacred objects when applied to af Klint's work. Enforcing the foundation statute limiting access to spiritual seekers was paramount, he declared, with engagement rooted in the artist's "esoteric Christianity." As he told reporters: "It must be a spiritual seeking in line with Hilma's. It cannot be spiritual seeking in the way of a Muslim or a Hindu."
To offset litigation costs, Erik sold his large Stockholm apartment and moved to a small one on the city's outskirts. His modest home contained no af Klint works—only an oil painting of a ship he found "majestic" because "there's no message in it, so it's not threatening." af Klint was different: "She sacrificed everything for her work," he said.
Erik described foundation leadership as a burden he had resisted for years but now saw as his responsibility to "put the camp in order." He compared selling af Klint's work to hypothetically "selling off the Gospels," bellowing mockingly: "Let's sell the Gospel of John!" while laughing.
Using the catalogue raisonné published by Stolpe in 2022, Erik demonstrated his interpretive approach to "Primordial Chaos." Pointing out various forms—crosses, spirals, blood, hearts, a falling dove—he quoted Genesis while explaining the paintings' sequential importance. He believed the dove represented Christ whose wings God broke "so that he would come to earth."
Erik insisted the paintings weren't meant as isolated artworks as typically exhibited in museums. Their sequencing was crucial to their message, and viewing them out of context was "like removing chapters of a book and expecting the story to retain its sense." His wife Michelle joked about whether he had "a mistress named Hilma," to which Erik replied they both believed "truth will always come. It's just a matter of when and how."
The court denied Erik's request for immediate board member removal pending a final decision expected next year, but oversight agencies opened reviews into whether foundation agreements complied with statutes. In August, Anders Kumlander resigned citing poor health.
More than a century after creating "The Paintings for the Temple," af Klint remains largely absent from the art marketplace since her most significant works cannot be sold under foundation statutes. Yet her presence in museums and popular culture hasn't diminished since the 2013 Moderna Museet show. Major exhibitions continued in 2023 at Tate Modern and other international venues, with more planned for Dublin and Paris.
When MoMA mounted a spring show of her botanical illustrations—decidedly minor works she called "studies"—galleries remained packed for months. Her fractured story continues as saint, prophet, brand, and fabulist, but her status as one of modernism's most disruptive figures remains secure.
Typically, circulating art produces clear ledgers of sales, contracts, loans, and dollar figures. But af Klint's story lacks such clarity, and her afterlife suggests that money, far from debasing art, actually pins it to the world. As biographer Voss noted: "There are no institutions or collectors with financial interests really lobbying for her." Without conversion to dollar figures, the work remains "suspended and endlessly interpretable."
Art historian Anna Maria Bernitz, working on a book about the foundation's internal struggles, believes the paintings' unavailability enhances their allure: "If you are rich and powerful, what would you like to have? You would like to have the impossible-to-have painting."
David Zwirner acknowledged the situation's uniqueness: "This is work that really touches people, that actually has upended a previous reading of art history, that's loaned out to the most important museums in the world." When asked about comparable situations, he thought of van Gogh's lifetime sales difficulties but concluded: "There's nothing else like it."
Meanwhile, af Klint's collaborators remain as obscure as she once was. Marie Cassel, Anna's 73-year-old grandniece, houses one of the largest private collections of Anna Cassel's paintings in an unassuming Stockholm apartment. Growing up surrounded by these mostly landscape works, Marie didn't think much about their creator until the 1990s when older family members died and she inherited a collection she knew little about.
"I have a sorrow in me," Marie said. "I want to resurrect the contributions of Anna and the other women. I think it's very unfair that you can just drive over a person." But she understood resistance to revising the established narrative: "The whole narrative about Hilma is built upon this notion of one person's perfect ideas. I think it's a shame that this story is so cemented, but I think it will never change—people are so in love with it."
Attending the 2018 Guggenheim opening, Marie felt "like a cat who had dragged in a dead animal" because "nobody wants to hear a good story dismantled." Cycling between polite outrage and weary resignation, she expressed hope that both women's works could be fully analyzed to determine exact contributions but wasn't willing to "waste her life on it." As she concluded: "Why should I be angry? These women did this—hooray."
