108- Adam’s Veronese –Switching codes
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"But it's not the original, it's just a facsimile!" How often have we heard such a
retort when confronted with an otherwise perfect reproduction of a painting? No
question about it, the obsession of the age is for the original version. Only the
original possesses an aura, this mysterious and mystical quality that no second
hand version will ever get. But paradoxically, this obsession for pinpointing
originality increases proportionally with the availability and accessibility of more
and more copies of better and better quality. If so much energy is devoted to the
search for the original — for archeological and marketing reasons— it is because
the possibility of making copies has never been so open-ended. If no copies of the
Mona Lisa existed would we pursue it with such energy — and, would we devise so
many conspiracy theories to decide whether or not the version held under glass
and protected by sophisticated alarms is the original surface painted by Leonardo's
hand or not. In other words, the intensity of the search for the original depends on
the amount of passion and the number of interests triggered by its copies. No
copies, no original. In order to stamp a piece with the mark of originality, you
need to apply to its surface the huge pressure that only a great number of
reproductions can provide.
So, in spite of the knee-jerk reaction —"But this is just a facsimile"—, we
should refuse to decide too quickly when considering the value of either the
original or its reproduction. Thus, the real phenomenon to be accounted for is not
the punctual delineation of one version divorced from the rest of its copies, but the
whole assemblage made up of one —or several— original(s) together with the retinue
of its continually re-written biography. It is not a case of "either or" but of "and,
and". Is it not because the Nile ends up in such a huge delta that the century-old
search for its sources had been so thrilling? To pursue the metaphor, we want, in
this paper, to behave like hydrographers intent in deploying the whole catchment
area of a river, not
only focusing on an original spring. A given work of art should
be compared not to any isolated locus but to a river's catchment, complete with its
estuaries, its many tributaries, its dramatic rapids, its many meandering turns and,
of course, also, its several hidden sources.
To give a name to this catchment area, we will use the word trajectory. A
work of art —no matter of which material it is made — has a trajectory or, to use
another expression popularized by anthropologists, a career.
1
What we want to do
in this paper is to specify the trajectory or career of a work of art and to move
from one question that we find moot ("Is it an original or merely a copy?") to
another one that we take to be decisive, especially at the time of digital
reproduction: "Is it well or badly reproduced?" The reason why we find this second
question so important is because the quality, conservation, continuation,
sustenance and appropriation of the original depends entirely on the distinction
between good and bad reproduction. We want to argue that a badly reproduced
original risks disappearing while a well accounted for original may continue to
enhance its originality and to trigger new copies. This is why we want to show that
1
Appadurai, Arjun, ed. The Social Life of Things. Commodities in Cultural Perspective.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986; Tamen, Miguel.
Friends of Interpretable
Objects. Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 2001.
108- Adam’s Veronese –Switching codes
5
facsimiles, especially those relying on complex (digital) techniques, are the most
fruitful way to explore the original and even to help re-define what originality
actually is.
To shift the attention of the reader away from the detection of the original
to that of the quality of its reproduction, let us remember that the word "copy"
does not need to be so derogatory, since it comes from the same etymology as
"copious," and thus designates a source of abundance. There is nothing inferior in
the notion of a copy, simply a proof of fecundity. Is originality something that is
fecund enough to produce an abundance of copies? So much so that, in order to
give a first shape to the abstract notion of the trajectory, we wish to call upon the
antique emblem of a cornucopia: a twisted goat horn with a sharp end —the
original— and a wide mouth disgorging at will an endless flow of riches (all thanks
to Zeus). Actually, this connection between the idea of copies and that of the
original should come as no surprise, since for a work of art to be original means
nothing but to be the origin of a long lineage. Something which has no progeny, no
reproduction, and no inheritors is not called original but rather sterile or barren.
To the question: "Is this isolated piece an original or a facsimile?," it might be
more interesting to ask: "Is this segment in the trajectory of the work of art barren
or fertile?".
To say that a work of art grows in originality thanks to the quality and
abundance of its copies, is nothing odd: this is true of the trajectory of any set of
interpretations. If the songs of the Iliad had remained stuck in one little village of
Asia Minor, Homer would not be considered as a (collective) author of such great
originality. It is because —and not in spite—of the thousands and thousands of
repetitions and variations of the songs that, when considering any copy of the Iliad,
we are moved so much by the unlimited fecundity of the original. We attribute to
the author (even though his very existence cannot be specified) the power of each
of the successive reinterpretations by saying that "potentially" all of them "were
already" there in the Ur-text —which we simultaneously know to be wrong (my
reading could not possibly be already there in Greece) and perfectly right since I
willingly add my little expansion to the "unlimited" fecundity of this collective
phenomenon called "The Iliad." If it is so unlimited, it is because I push the limit a
little bit more. This does mean that there is nothing "inherently great" in the first
versions of the great poem, and that to penetrate inside this inherent greatness, you
need to bring with you all of the successive versions, adaptations and
accommodations. Nothing is more ordinary than this mechanism: Abraham has
become the father of a people "as numerous as the grains of sand" only because he
had a lineage. Before the birth of Isaac, Abraham was a despised, barren old man.
That he became "the Father of three religions" is a result of what happened to
Isaac, and, subsequently, what happened to every one of his later sons and
daughters. Such is the "awesome responsibility" of the reader, as Charles Péguy so
eloquently said, because this process is entirely reversible; "if we stop interpreting,