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concerning how it should be played (a double-edged sword, as any director
knows). This is the technical reason why, in the case of performance art, we don't
distinguish between an original and a copy, but rather between successive versions
of the same play each designated by the label "version n", "version n+1", "version
n+2", etc. It is also why the real play "King Lear" is localized nowhere specifically
(and often not at the very beginning) but is rather the name given to the whole
cornucopia itself (even though each spectator may cherish those special moments
in his or her personal history when, because of an exceptionally good "revival",
the genius of the real King Lear has been "instantiated" more fully than any time
before or later). In those cases, the trajectory is composed of segments made, so to
speak, of the same stuff or that at least require a roughly similar mobilization of
resources.
The situation appears to be entirely different when considering, for
instance, a painting. Because it remains in the same frame, encoded in the same
pigments, entrusted to the same institution, one cannot help having the impression
that every reproduction will be so much easier to do and that there will be no
possible comparison of quality between the various segments of the trajectory.
This is why the aura seems definitely attached to one version only: the autograph
one. And certainly this is superficially true: if you take a picture of the Nozze di
Cana in Paris with your digital camera, no one in his right mind can render
commensurable the pale rendering on the screen of your computer and the 67
m2
of canvas in le Louvre… If you claimed that your picture was "just as good as the
original", people would
raise their shoulders in pity, and rightly so.
And yet, the distance between "version n" called "the original" and
"version n+1" called "a mere copy" depends just as much on the differential of
efforts, of costs, of techniques as on any substantial distinction between the
successive versions of the same painting. In other words, it is not because of some
inherent quality of painting that we tend to create such a yawning gap between
originals and copies —it is not because paintings are more "material" (an opera or
a play is just as "material" as pigments on canvas)—, but because of the differences
in the techniques used for each segment of the trajectory. While in performance
art, they are grossly homogeneous (each replay relying on the same gamut of
techniques) the career of a painting or a sculpture relies on segments which are
vastly heterogeneous and which vary greatly in the intensity of the efforts deployed
along its path. It is this asymmetry, we wish to argue, that too often preclude one
from saying that the Nozze di Cana in Paris has been "reprinted" or "given again"
in Venice. And it is certainly this presupposition that so angered the French art
historian who castigated her friend for wasting her time in San Giorgio instead of
visiting the "genuine Veroneses". Hidden behind the commonsense distinction
between original and mere copies lies a totally different process that has to do with
the technical equipment, the amount of care, and the intensity of the search for
the originality that goes from one version to the next. Before being able to defend
itself for re-enacting the original well or badly, a facsimile is discredited
beforehand because it is associated with a gap in techniques of reproduction, a gap
which is based on a misunderstanding of photography as an index of reality.
108- Adam’s Veronese –Switching codes
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The proof of this claim can be obtained by showing what happens to our
search for originality when we
modify this differential —something that becomes
easier and easier in the new digital age. That it is not limited to performance art
might be made clear by the comparison with the copying of manuscripts. Before
printing, the marginal cost of producing one more copy was exactly identical to
that of producing the penultimate one —a situation to which we are actually
returning now with digital copies. Inside the scriptorium of a monastery, all
exemplars were themselves copies, and no copyist would have said that this one is
the original while this one is only a copy —they were all facsimiles— even though
great care was of course put into distinguishing a better, earlier, more illuminated
version from an inferior one. Here again, the aura was able to travel and might
very well have migrated to the newest and latest copy excellently done on one of
the best parchments and double checked against the best earlier sources.
Naturally, following the invention of the printing press, the marginal cost of one
extra copy became negligible compared to the time and techniques necessary to
write the manuscript; then, but then only, an enormous distance was introduced,
and rightly so, between one part of the trajectory —the autograph manuscript
now turned into THE ORIGINAL— and the print run —which, from that
moment on, would be considered to consist of mere copies (until of course the
great art of bibliophily revealed endless subtle differences between each of the
successive prints and forensic digital analysis allowed us to date and order those
copies).
There is no better proof that the ability of the aura to be retrieved from the
flow of copies (or remain stuck in one segment of the trajectory) crucially depends
on the heterogeneity of the techniques used in the successive segments, than to
consider what happens to THE ORIGINAL book now that we are all sitting
inside that worldwide cut and paste scriptorium called the Web. Because there is
no longer any huge difference between the techniques used for each successive
reinstantiation of the originals of some segment of a hypertext, we accept quite
easily that no great distinction can be made between one version, judged before as
"the only original", and later versions, which would be said to be "mere copies".
We happily stamp successive renderings of the "same" argument with "version 1",
"version 2", "version n" while the notion of the author has become just as fuzzy as
that of the aura —not to mention what happens to copyright royalities. Hence the
popularity of collective scriptoria like Wikipedia. In effect, Benjamin confused the
notion of "mechanical reproduction" with the inequality in the techniques
employed along a trajectory. No matter how mechanical a reproduction is, once
there is no huge gap in the process of production between version n and version
n+n, the clearcut distinction between the original and its reproduction becomes
less crucial—and the aura begins to hesitate and is uncertain where it should land.
All of that might be very well, but is it possible to imagine the same
migration of the aura in the reproduction or the reinterpretation of, say, a
painting? After all, it is the contrast between the Nozze and the Ambassadors that
triggered our inquiry, which would have gone very differently had it been limited