It’s just candy.
Walk into a gallery at the Art Institute of Chicago or the MoMA, and you might see a shimmering pile of cellophane-wrapped sweets tucked into a corner. Most people walk right past it. Some kids might try to grab a piece before their parents hiss at them to stop touching the art. But here’s the thing: you’re supposed to take it.
That’s the whole point of Felix Gonzalez-Torres’s 1991 masterpiece, "Untitled" (Portrait of Ross in L.A.).
It isn't a painting. It isn't a sculpture in the traditional sense. It's a pile of 175 pounds of hard candy. That specific number isn't random. It was the "ideal" body weight of Ross Laycock, the artist’s partner, before he began to waste away from AIDS-related complications.
The Weight of a Soul
When you look at a traditional portrait, you’re looking at a likeness—eyes, hair, a specific smile. Gonzalez-Torres did something much more radical and, honestly, much more painful. He represented his lover through weight.
Ross Laycock was a somatologist. He was vibrant. He was loved. And then he was sick.
As the public interacts with "Untitled" (Portrait of Ross in L.A.), the pile diminishes. Someone takes a piece of lemon drops or peppermint. Then another person takes one. The pile shrinks. It's a slow, agonizingly public metaphor for the way the virus consumed Ross’s body. The weight drops from 175 pounds to 160, to 140, to nothing.
It's visceral.
You’re not just a viewer; you’re a participant in his disappearance. By taking the candy, you are literally consuming the subject. You become complicit in the loss. But there’s a flip side to that coin that people often miss. By eating the candy, Ross becomes a part of you. He’s no longer just a pile of sugar in a museum corner; he’s in your bloodstream. He's sustained.
Breaking the Rules of Art
Back in the early 90s, the art world was still very much about "don't touch." Museums were shrines. You stood behind a velvet rope and whispered. Gonzalez-Torres hated that. He wanted art to be "generous."
He didn't just give permission for the work to change; he mandated it.
The "manifesto" of the piece—the instructions provided to museums—dictates that the pile should be replenished. When it gets too low, the museum staff brings out new bags of candy and dumps them back in the corner. The weight returns to 175 pounds.
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This is where the hope lives.
It’s a cycle of death and resurrection. It’s the idea that while the individual (Ross) might leave us, the memory of him and the love for him can be endlessly renewed. It’s a middle finger to the finality of death.
Context Matters: The Height of the AIDS Crisis
You can't talk about "Untitled" (Portrait of Ross in L.A.) without talking about the political climate of 1991. This wasn't just "art for art's sake."
The US government’s response to the AIDS epidemic was, to put it lightly, horrific. Silence was the standard. People were dying in droves, and the art world was losing an entire generation of talent. Keith Haring. Robert Mapplethorpe. David Wojnarowicz.
Gonzalez-Torres chose a form of "stealth" activism.
If he had made a graphic, angry sculpture about the horrors of the disease, conservative politicians might have tried to censor it or pull funding (which they were doing a lot of back then). But how do you censor a pile of candy? It looks sweet. It looks innocent.
It’s a Trojan horse.
Once you’re standing there with the sugar dissolving on your tongue and you read the wall text, the reality hits you like a freight train. It’s a quiet, devastating protest against the "wasting" of a human life while the world watched and did nothing.
Is it Really a Portrait?
We usually think of portraits as static things. A moment frozen in time.
But humans aren't static. We change every second. We lose skin cells, we grow hair, we lose weight, we gain it back. Gonzalez-Torres captured the process of being alive rather than just the image of it.
The work is officially "Untitled," but the parenthetical "Portrait of Ross in L.A." gives us the key. Why L.A.? That’s where they spent time together. It’s a specific place and a specific person, yet the "Untitled" status makes it universal. It could be a portrait of anyone you’ve ever lost.
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I’ve seen people stand in front of this work and sob. I’ve also seen people laugh and compare flavors. Both are valid. The artist wanted the work to be lived with.
The Logistics of Candy
You might wonder about the "real" details. Does the museum use a specific brand?
Technically, the artist’s estate (represented by the Felix Gonzalez-Torres Foundation) is pretty flexible. They don't require "Brach’s" or "Jolly Ranchers." The candy just needs to be individually wrapped in multicolored cellophane.
Interestingly, different museums choose different candies, which changes the "vibe" of the portrait.
- The Art Institute of Chicago version often feels more golden and amber.
- Other installations might feel more vibrant and "pop-art" with bright blues and reds.
The shape of the pile changes, too. Sometimes it's a spill in a corner. Sometimes it's a carpet spread across the floor. The artist didn't want a fixed form because Ross didn't have a fixed form at the end.
Why This Work Still Dominates Conversations
We live in a world of digital art and NFTs now, yet a 30-year-old pile of candy still trends on social media every few months. Why?
Because it’s a physical manifestation of grief.
In a digital age, we lack "touchable" memorials. Everything is a photo on a screen. "Untitled" (Portrait of Ross in L.A.) forces you to use your hands and your sense of taste. It’s a communal experience. You’re eating the same "body" as the stranger standing next to you.
It also challenges our ideas of ownership. You "steal" a piece of the art, but you can't keep it. It disappears. Just like everything else.
Common Misconceptions
People get a few things wrong about this piece constantly.
First, it’s not "worthless" because it can be replaced. The "art" isn't the physical sugar; it’s the idea and the certificate of authenticity. The museum owns the right to recreate this specific experience.
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Second, it wasn't just about AIDS. Gonzalez-Torres was deeply interested in the "public vs. private" divide. He wanted to take the most private thing imaginable—the death of a lover—and put it in the most public place possible. He wanted to see if the public would care for it.
If the museum forgets to refill the pile, the portrait dies. It requires constant labor and attention to keep Ross "alive." That’s a beautiful metaphor for how we maintain the memory of the dead. It takes work.
Seeing the Work Today
If you want to see it, check the permanent collections of major contemporary art museums. However, because it’s a "manifestation" work, it isn't always on the floor. It "exists" even when it isn't being displayed.
When you do find it, don't be shy.
- Approach the pile slowly. Notice the way the light hits the wrappers.
- Read the description. Think about the year 1991.
- Take a piece. Don't just grab a handful; take one.
- Feel the weight. A single piece of candy weighs almost nothing. But 175 pounds of it is a mountain.
- Eat it. Think about the transience of life.
It’s a heavy experience for a "light" snack.
How to Apply the Lessons of Gonzalez-Torres
You don't have to be a world-class artist to appreciate the logic behind this piece. It teaches us about "generosity" in our own lives.
- Embrace Change: Nothing stays the same. The pile shrinks, and that’s okay. Resistance to change is where the suffering starts.
- Create Living Memorials: Instead of just looking at old photos, do something that "renews" the memory of someone you’ve lost. Cook their favorite meal. Share their stories. Replenish the pile.
- Find Strength in Vulnerability: Gonzalez-Torres turned his greatest tragedy into a gift for the world. There's immense power in showing your "wasting" parts to others.
The legacy of Ross Laycock doesn't live in a cemetery. It lives in the thousands of people who have carried a small piece of his "portrait" out of a museum and into the streets. It’s a brilliant, sugary, heartbreaking trick that ensures he never truly disappears.
To truly understand the impact, look up the artist's other "dateline" works or his "Untitled" (Perfect Lovers)—two identical battery-operated clocks that eventually fall out of sync. He was obsessed with time, but in the candy pile, he finally figured out how to make it stand still, even if just for a moment of sweetness.
Next Steps for Art Lovers
To see the piece in person, verify the current exhibition status at the Art Institute of Chicago or the Metropolitan Museum of Art, as they frequently rotate their contemporary installations. If you're interested in the history of the era, research the ACT UP movement to understand the political firestorm that surrounded the creation of this work. Finally, consider reading the collected writings of Felix Gonzalez-Torres; his letters provide a gut-wrenching look at the love story that fueled his most famous creations.