Michelangelo’s Pietà is frozen perfection
in Carrara marble. Once the last polishing pad was put aside, the sculpture was removed from the stream of time, remaining unchanged through the centuries.
Today that is no longer the case, for every form of art. James Cameron’s Titanic, originally shown a decade ago, was re-released as a “enhanced” version last month, pushed into 3D; ebooks go through multiple editions in a month. Nothing about art is fixed or permanent any longer.
Art has always faced an evolutionary imperative: inspire other creative works or die. Reflecting the impatience of their creators with the slow and indifferent process of natural selection, creative work is experiencing the selective pressure of cultural taste and creative inspiration. In response, art is beginning to evolve itself.
In the oldest cave systems, there is plentiful evidence that art was readjusted, replaced and redrawn by our forgotten ancestors; perhaps by the same painter, more likely by his descendants through the passage of deep time. In the interregnum between the birth of agriculture and today, art was enshrined, constant, unchangeable. Now, every creative work is under constant pressure to adapt to the rapidly changing expectations of its audience.
As always, this is due to technology: as editing tools become more powerful, the temptation to “tweak” becomes almost irresistible. This inevitably leads to a process of constant re-editing in which few works are ever permanent: like life, they exist in the stream of time, never left alone. In turn, the expectations of the audience changes: they grow bored with work that is static, fixed, and unchangeable.
The “mimetic drift” of constantly-evolved works leads to an entirely new set of concerns, most particularly the loss of original material. The film print of Star Wars shown in theatres in 1977 can no longer be seen, outside of some copies preserved on the archaic medium of laserdisc: according to Lucasfilm, the current edited version is all that exists. But there is immense value in the original work, even if only for archival purposes. It’s equally important to curate the process of alteration. All too often in the case of digital art, the past is disposable: there are entire digital graveyards filled with the ashes of old game code and corrupted forum postings, art that was made and lost, never to be recovered.
This process sharply brings into question concepts of ownership. If you have an oil painting on your wall, you have physical possession of it: you can reframe it, cut it into strips, and reassemble it. You don’t have the right to recreate it, at least in a traditional copyright system: that is the sole power of the intellectual owner of the work. So what happens when that painting is digital and net-connected? Does the artist have the right to come in through the internet and “fix” the painting? What about via a software update? And what does that imply about possession?
From the commercial side, “airbrushing” photos of models to make them more visually appealing has been a standard practice for decades. Coded into automatic correction algorithms, that aesthetic is making its way into consumer-level products, from simple processes that remove red-eye to suites of software that “enhance” and “beautify” images with no intervention from the photographer.
All of these trends call for an increased awareness on the part of both creators and their audience. This awareness could be summarized in a manifesto of just three points:
Artists need to recognize that the creative act is a negotiation between themselves and their audience, and that every iteration and derivation of their work – from flawed first generation versions to fanfic – has value and should be retained.
Both artists and audiences need better curative tools that will record the evolution of any piece of art and allow the audience to decide which version they want to interact with.
As a culture, we should be forthright about communicating changes made to artistic work: it should always be clear what was changed, when, by whom, and how.