Late last month, the New York Times ran an obituary for reclusive Hungarian artist Simon Hantaï. A relative unknown in America, Hantaï was one of the more innovative figures in 20th-century Continental art, producing works ranging from the “Écriture Rose”—a 14-by-11-foot canvas covered in hand-reproduced texts of various origins—to the “Mariales” series—comprised of intricately-folded canvases treated with bright colors, forming beautiful and disorienting aperiodic patterns. For a long period, however, he sealed himself off from the public, becoming virtually invisible. Near the end of his career in public, the Times reports, Hantaï presented his work at “a noncommercial exhibition space in Paris.” The artist cited an irreconcilable vision of his work with the public as responsible for his isolation: “I felt that the art world was going wrong… I was starting to receive commissions. I was being asked to paint the ceiling of the Paris Opera House. Society seemed to be preparing to paint my work for me. I could have obeyed; many, perhaps most, painters do. The prospect did not coincide with my desire.”

Hantaï’s thought process, that of the artist’s struggle against commercialization, represents a long artistic tradition. The tradition of the street artist stems from a philosophy fundamentally at odds with American property theory.

The illegal appropriation of surfaces for the work, first and foremost, alienates street art from the rest of the contemporary art world—it flouts the very foundation of the society in which it exists (the law) and necessarily exists outside of it. Contemporary art galleries display their installations behind velvet ropes, where the works can be protected by motion sensors, attentive docents, and security guards. The same is not true of street art. To ensure the survival of their work, street artists count on the durability of their materials rather than the charity of their environment. The very idea that these works could be irrevocably altered—that they are impermanent, evanescent, that their fate is inextricable from the places and people that will suffer them—is another pillar of the craft.

A more malleable tenet underpinning these principles is the anonymity of the artist. At its outset, street art was a component of the primarily signatory graffiti culture—an artist reflected his or her originality in the textures and contours of their own signature. As the movement has grown in numbers and sophistication, these personae have become less textual and more enigmatic. One of the most well known street art blogs, Streetsy.com, uploads daily photos of street art—postering, stensils, street sculpture, murals, decals, and other work whose merit transcends the pejorative “graffiti” label—in Los Angeles, New Orleans, New York City, Paris, Tokyo and elsewhere. What makes this site more interesting than the ordinary blog is the strange standard for attribution—the artists are anonymous, but even those artists without a consistent alias can be identified by consistent qualities in their work. “Gaia,” for instance, can be distinguished by his or her fondness for stencils of wiry, spider-like creatures and natural forms.

For up-and-comers, it’s not as easy to gain recognition. One of the site’s frequently asked questions is, “Hey—you got my name wrong!” Streetsy’s response: “A lot of times, it’s hard to figure out who created a piece, or what to tag it, so I give the picture a descriptive tag, like ‘bird’ or ‘machine.’ Just let me know the correct name, and I’ll make the change.” But a few artists seem to be manipulating their own obscurity. A more famous example is the “OBEY” campaign, originated by designer Shepard Fairey, whose posters and stencils spawned an underground cult that gave way to a lucrative market for clothing and apparel bearing the label.

Today, the most visible statement from the world of street art is political. Updates on Streetsy and elsewhere frequently show new art dealing with the upcoming presidential election. Given the liberal tendencies of the art world in general, it comes as no surprise that much of the political street art of the day is in support of Barack Obama. The most prominent endorsement of Obama has come by way of conceptual artist Ron English. English’s art tends to concern itself with American popular culture—he’s best known for his lampoon of McDonalds and Disney brand imagery—and Obama as a rising cultural icon seems to have caught his attention. English recently released prints of a portrait of Obama’s face over the features of Abraham Lincoln (beard, hair, top hat, etc.) as posters and stickers meant to adorn subway corridors and street posts.

The political implications are clear, but whether a stunt like this helps or hurts Obama’s image is another issue altogether—one that English doesn’t seem to care much about. He presents his work in a vacuum, for his patrons to contextualize how they will; the image itself is without textual footnote, be it to clarify or confuse its meaning.

At the height of his fame, Simon Hantaï retreated from society, afraid that society wanted to wrest his work from him. Today, Ron English and artists like him seem to be using society itself as another instrument in their art. What ensues is nothing short of fascinating.

—Columnist Ryan J. Meehan can be reached at rmeehan@fas.harvard.edu.