ICMAH - ICOM International Committee for Museums and Collections of Archaeology and History - Annual Meeting 22nd ICOM General Conference in Shanghai, China, 7-12nd November 2010 Original, Copy, Fake, On the significance of the object in History and Archaeology Museums Table of Contents You can always get what you want. History, the original, and the endless opportunities of the copy Rosmarie Beier-de Haan p. 1 Significance of originals and replicas in archaeological site museums, with the case study of the Han Dynasty site museums in China BAI Yan p. 6 Heroes don’t cry. Examining exhibitions and myths of origin in the National Museum of Colombia Cristina Lleras p. 23 Window brothels in the Amsterdam Museum – Art and history, reconstruction and reality Annemarie de Wildt p. 47 The copy as an exhibit: “representative” or “educational tool?” - Introduction Nina Archabal p. 66 The role of authentic objects in science museums Constanze Hampp, Daniela Bauer, Stephan Schwan p. 68 The potential of museum artifacts: Meta-historical art in the museum world Jennifer Restauri p. 87 The object in history museums, mediator for the invisible Adeline Rispal p. 103 Archaeological copies: a scientific aid, a visual reminder or a contradiction in terms? Philippos Mazarakis-Ainian p. 118 The copy as an exhibit Myriame Morel-Deledalle p. 124 Reconstructed objects in prehistoric museums; Creative Originals - A case of the Field Museum at the Chongokni paleolithic site Kidong Bae p. 143 You can always get what you want. History, the original, and the endless opportunities of the copy Rosmarie Beier-de Haan Head of Collections and Exhibitions Curator German Historical Museum This introduction aims to sketch the varied history of the relation between original and copy within the larger context of cultural history up to the present. Are we really living in the age of the “culture of the copy”, as so many claim? The copy is like Cinderella in the fairy tale, cowering silently in the kitchen over the stove while her radiant step-sisters bask in the brilliance of the ceremonial ball. Is the copy the “poor sister” of the resplendent original? It often seems to be. For example, when an exhibition presents a reproduction instead of the original, colleagues from other museums wonder: was the museum not considered trustworthy enough to be given the original? Does it not meet the essential global conditions for getting items on loan? Do people here confuse the exhibition with the gift shop? And visitors might wonder: do they count on having immature visitors who won’t notice the difference between the original and the copy? So the copy seems to leave a bad aftertaste. There are various reasons for this, two of which seem central to me: one specific to museums and the other to cultural history. The first reason stems from the very nature of the museum. The museum is the site of material transmission, thus the site of originals. Where in a society are the remains, the relics, the authentic material culture preserved if not in the museum? This is reflected in ICOM’s ethical guidelines. Collecting and preserving are two of the pillars of museum work (alongside researching, exhibiting and communicating). And the ICOM Code of Ethics says explicitly: Museums should respect the integrity of the original when replicas, reproductions, or copies of items in the collection are made. All such copies should be permanently marked as facsimiles. No-one will have any objection to this good practice, and none of us wish to have depositories where we can no longer distinguish originals and copies. But let us look closer to history, to cultural history, in order to better understand the relation between original and copy. And at this point I would like to note that my view of cultural history is predominantly Western, and Western European. Whether the story I am about to sketch has any validity for Asian cultures as well is an open question for me, one that I would be happy to discuss with you, my colleagues, afterwards. In his international bestseller The Name of the Rose (1980), the Italian philosopher and writer Umberto Eco provides a lovely description of the copyists in a mediaeval monastic library, bent over their work with ink-stained fingers and the utmost concentration: the reproduction of precious handwritten manuscripts and rare books. The works to be reproduced were not copyright-protected originals as we would understand them today, but rather the material manifestation of a divinely-ordered universe. They cried out to be copied in order to bring this manifestation into the world; in this sense, the work of copying was a revered craft. Since the Renaissance, artists who lived in the posterity of the classical world and perfectly imitated these models tended to see themselves as godlike. What we are used to calling “modern age thought” interprets an original work as the creation of an individual genius. Artists began signing their works to protect their style from imitation. Driven by an increasingly secular art market that demanded more and more works of the same type and thus increased artists’ fame, the artists used techniques and technologies to quickly reproduce their art to increase distribution of their original style: workshops with students, and copper engravings and etchings that reproduced the original. Each new step on the ladder of reproduction was accompanied by louder cries for the originality of true art and more drastic measures against “counterfeits”, which themselves first made possible the demand for originals. Then the figure of the connoisseur emerged, who embodied the aesthetic function of proclaiming the non-reproducibility of great art. Economically, however, the connoisseur functioned as a double-check, distinguishing copies or counterfeits from the works of the artist, distinguishing better or worse originals, and driving up the price and prestige of the favored works. 2 Thus original and copy still belonged together. The copy became the discount version, the poor man’s substitute for all those for whom the original was unobtainable. People who couldn’t acquire an original Rubens bought the copper etching of it or – with the new reproduction techniques of the 19th century – the collotype or phototype. And yet around the turn of the 19th century – at precisely that moment when historical museums first arose in large numbers – one also finds representatives of the Enlightenment commending the copy as a means of aesthetic appreciation and education. Museums acquired plaster reproductions of ancient models for the collections such as the Venus de Milo, Hercules or Diana. Some museums in the early 19th century were founded entirely on such copies. They were not concerned with the original, with its aura – a concept we will certainly be talking about often enough in the coming days – but rather with the appreciation of the object and what it attests to; and thus it was of secondary importance whether it was original or a copy. Of course this is an attitude that has maintained its validity through the ages and we have since come to make use of in museums and exhibitions. But do we still have any use for the original at all today? If we believe the American cultural historian Hillel Schwartz, not anymore. Schwartz looks at the relation between original and copy, the authentic and the fake, truth and lie, and shows that man cannot live from the original alone and has been unable to for a long time. Instead human originality consists, for him, in the unceasing invention of new copying techniques. In his book The culture of the copy (1996) Schwartz sketches an abundant universe of replicas, teeming with miniatures and portrait photographs, mannequins, sex dolls, marionettes, ventriloquists, vending machines, robots, androids, letter copies, documentaries, artificial insemination, surrogate motherhood, etc. It is only the production of copies, the creation of a life from decals and imitated feelings that makes us what we are – at least according to Schwartz. It is the duplicity of the event, the replicability of the world (the Eiffel Tower in Las Vegas, the evening news or the clothes we wear) that seems to give things their credibility 3 and thus to suggest precisely that which the things seem to have least of: authenticity. Our search for authenticity, in Schwartz’ view, stems from a longing for truth, self- knowledge, and a more secure identity; but how can we satisfy this longing in a time of the bio-energetic omnipotence or omnipresence of continually new media? The more the original eludes us, the more we come to accept the counterfeit until we finally give ourselves over to it entirely. This is what Schwartz calls the “culture of the copy”. Like all large theses, this one has something charming and yet disconcerting about it. But do we really live in the age of the “culture of the copy”, as so many claim? If so, why do people still aspire to visit museums, why does everyone want to see the Mona Lisa in the original? Perhaps, just because it is ubiquitous as reproduction? Might not the reproduction pave the way for the original? I think there is a good deal of truth in this: the copy leads us to the real. The real, the original, remains. Just as we want to see a city or a landscape with our own eyes precisely because we know it as a reproduction, a postcard, museum visitors want to see the original precisely because they have an idea, a image of it, because they are already familiar with the reproduction, the copy. And we curators always have the option, in our exhibitions, of deciding between original and reproduction. The decision can be made anew every time, and for different reasons.