Once again, this kind of reasoning is something I have experienced myself. The family expedition to the Niaux caves that I described in chapter 3 was not the first time I had visited a prehistoric cave. On a driving tour around France in 1990 I chanced upon the more famous prehistoric Lascaux caves in the Dordogne region.5 It was an unexpected opportunity, one not to be missed. At the time I was not particularly knowledgeable about or interested in prehistoric cave paintings and equally did not understand French particularly well, but I had heard of the Lascaux caves, and they were amazing. The animal drawings, all carefully lit in a remarkably accessible underground journey, were breathtaking. I was so naive that I did not realize my error. It was only when I left that I picked up a brochure explaining that the cave I had visited was in fact a reproduction of the original cave nearby that had been closed to the public since 1963 because of the problem of corrosive breath on the original paintings. I felt stupid and cheated. If I had known, I probably would not have bothered with the tour. Thankfully, the trip to the genuine Niaux cave fifteen years later, where we stumbled around in pitch-darkness, restored my sense of wonder in prehistoric art. No matter how good a reproduction is, knowing that it is not original destroys any sense of connectedness such an experience generates.
ESSENTIAL ART
In 2005 Sotheby’s in London sold Lady Seated at a Vestral for £16 million, following ten years of dispute about whether it was an original Vermeer masterpiece or a twentieth-century forgery attributed to the expert forger Han van Meegeren.6 After it was announced that the picture was an original Vermeer, its value soared. Nothing about the picture had changed – only the expert opinion about who had painted it. This proves that the appreciation of art is more than how something looks. It also depends on who you think created it. Auction houses typically charge up to 20 per cent commission on sales, so it’s no surprise that the Vermeer authentication was provided by, of course, Sotheby’s own experts.
Provenance in collecting is the proof of originality. Collectors seek authentic originals with provenance because they are more valuable. But why are originals more valuable than an identical copy? One could argue that forgeries or identical copies reduce the value of originals because they compromise the market forces of supply and demand. In the same way that a prolific artist who floods the market with work undermines the value attributed to each piece, rarity means limited supply. For many collectors, however, possessing an original object fulfills a deeper need to connect with the previous owner or the person who made the item. I think that an art forgery is unacceptable because it does not generate the psychological essentialist view that something of the artist is literally in the work.
Such psychological essentialism has been taken to its logical conclusion in the world of contemporary art. This is especially true for the Young British Art movement of the 1990s. For example, one of the most notorious essentialist artworks is Tracy Emin’s piece My Bed, which was short-listed for the 1999 Turner Art Prize and sold to the collector Charles Saatchi for £150,000. The piece was simply the artist’s unmade bed surrounded by her soiled underwear, a vodka bottle, and crumpled cigarette packets taken from a time she spent several days in the bed owing to a suicidal depression. Other artists, such as living icons Gilbert & George, are equally notorious for works of art made from their bodily fluids and excrement. However, probably the most essential artwork is one that was regarded as a signature piece of the Young British Art movement. Marc Quinn’s 1991 Self is a self-portrait sculpture of his head made from at least eight pints of the artist’s own frozen blood transfused over five months. Saatchi bought Self for £13,000. Interest in the piece was fuelled by press reports in 2002 that workmen renovating Saatchi’s kitchen accidentally unplugged the freezer containing the head.7 However, Self was on display in the Saatchi gallery a year later, raising questions of authenticity. Because of the deteriorating nature of the material, Quinn remakes the sculpture every five years with his own blood. Saatchi sold Self in 2005 to an American collector for £1.5 million. One wonders what will happen to this work of art once the source of original material runs dry. Will Quinn’s descendants be expected to replenish the supply of blood after the artist has died?
We all treasure sentimental objects from within our own lifetime that do not necessarily have an intrinsic worth other than their connection with a family member or a loved one. These objects are essentially irreplaceable. For example, engagement or wedding rings are typical sentimental items that are unique. If lost or stolen, most people would not regard an identical replacement ring as a satisfactory substitute, because these objects are imbued with an essential quality. Psychologically, we treat them as if there were some invisible property in them that makes them what they are.
But what if it were possible to make identical copies? Imagine that a machine existed that could duplicate matter down to the subatomic level, such that no scientific instrument could measure or tell the difference between the original object and the duplicate – like a photocopier for objects. If the object was one of sentimental value, would you willingly accept the second object as a suitable replacement? For most people, the answer is a simple no. Consider your wedding ring. Let’s assume that you are happily married and cherish the ring of gold on your finger. Would you accept an identical duplicate even though you could not tell the two apart? If you feel emotional, the answer is most likely not.
FIG. 18: Marc Quinn’s Self. © Marc Quinn. PHOTOGRAPH BY STEPHEN WHITE, COURTESY OF JAY JOPLING/WHITE CUBE GALLERY (LONDON)
Identical replacements are not acceptable because psychologically we believe that individual objects cannot be replicated exactly even by a hypothetical perfect copying machine. This attitude is based on the assumption that originality is somehow encoded in the physical structure of matter. We intuitively sense that certain objects are unique because of their intangible essence. However, such a notion is supernatural. Let me explain why with a much bigger example: a whole ship.
THE SHIP OF THESEUS
Early in the hours of a Monday morning in May 2007, a fire blazed through the nineteenth-century clipper the Cutty Sark, one of London’s major tourist attractions docked at Greenwich. Initial reports from the fire crews at the scene indicated that almost all of the ship had been destroyed. However, the ship was undergoing a £25 million restoration, and Chris Livett of the Cutty Sark Trust confirmed that half of the ship’s fabric had already been removed. He said that the ship had survived many potential disasters in the past and that the current crisis would be overcome.8 Even if the Cutty Sark can be restored, questions remain: Will it still be the original? When does restoration and repair become replacement? How much of the original can be replaced before it is no longer regarded as the same thing?
Whether it is a ship or a decaying work of art at issue, such questions about restoration and conservation raise the philosophical problem of identity. If the material fabric of an object is replaced in its entirety, can the resulting object ever be said to be the original? What proportion of replacement is acceptable before the object ceases to be the original? What if the renovation is gradual?