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It is an old expression that has hung around because it captures a feeling so nicely. Yet the precise feeling remains illusive, along the lines of “I don’t know what “it” means (supply your own ‘it’), but I know it when I see it!”
I found myself thinking about the idea of an undefinable “it” the other day while reading an amusing story about a lovely snafu at the US Postal service. Seems that the recently released “forever” stamp bears the likeness not of the iconic lady who welcomes, hopefully not sarcastically, the tired, poor and huddled masses to America, but rather of her imitation who welcomes tourists to the Las Vegas strip. A little “oops” that cost the USPS 3.5 million in royalties to the creator of the Vegas version.
But it did get me thinking about the seemingly shrinking distance between the “real thing” and imitations. It is a distance that has all but disappeared in the spooky land of the digital - where there is, in theory, no difference at all between a digital “original” and the millionth “copy” derived from the same digital code.
I wonder, and indeed hope, that we have gotten this one wrong. I choose to believe, that even in the creepy valley of the digital clones there is still an original “mold” created by a genius that, when broken, leaves behind an “original,” ineffably different from all the seemingly identical copies that may follow.
I remember being face-to-face with our old friend Michelangelo’s David in Florence. Well, not literally. He is much taller than I, and his face - and everything else - is much bigger. But it was definitely one of those “I can’t define art, but I know it when I see it!” moments. There is a presence in his presence that is able to transcend even the prattle of parents who somehow feel it is important that their infant child see the David. And who knows, maybe the baby brain is somehow attuned to that mysterious presence.
But then, eventually, you find your way to the gift shop, and there row after row of Davids greet you in varying sizes and finishes. And that is when I wonder about the relationship between those mini-Davids and the big guy down the hall. I mean, in this instance the difference is obvious - in size and the medium if nothing else. But what about the difference between any two of the seemingly identical Davids on the shelves? Those made from the same mold and shipped to shops all over Florence? Around the world? Would there be a difference between a poster made from a photo of the real David, and a seemingly identical poster made from a photo of one of the mini-Davids? Especially if both posters were digital prints?
I choose to believe that there is a difference. And, no, I have no data to support my belief, other than my firm conviction that every element in existence is reducible to its essential chord composed of an absolutely unique cluster of strings - those indivisible units from which all other matter is constructed. I do not deny that digital and genetic clones appear identical - but the reality is “not really real.”
Consider the simple examples of the “corrupted” computer files that need to be downloaded repeatedly before they will perform in a manner “identical” to the original. Or consider the uncertain relationships that exist between the “same” image on your smartphone, laptop, desktop, or printer output. One can argue that the “source code” for all those images is identical and the variation in the images is the result of improper calibration in the presenting technology - laptop, printer, whatever. But does not the notion of “identical copy” imply an ability to present to an audience of one - you or me, or someone else, or more - all your “friends” - multiple identical copies?
As usual, I need to approach my discomfort with this assertion with an analogy, or more accurately, a story - true story. When my younger daughter was little, two realities clashed. The first was that she was subject to rather serious allergies and related attacks of asthma. The second was that she, like many kiddos that age, had a special stuffed animal. Her’s was a white bunny, big floppy ears, pink satin inserts - AKA Bunny.
One day her allergies and asthma sent her to the hospital. I remember pulling night duty in her room, faux sleeping in her room, while actually anxiously listening to her every breath as various machines whirred and the chaos of a hospital made any real sleep a fantasy. Morning brought a return to normalcy for us all, and our preparations to return home. It was then that we discovered that Bunny was missing. We never found Bunny. To this day I have no idea what happened to Bunny. My inclination was to blame the hospital staff. Bunny tangled in hundreds of sheets sent to the laundry. Or Bunny snatched by a psychotic stuffed-animal thief who roamed the pediatrics ward. I still do not know where Bunny went. But I do know some things about Bunny.
First, I know that at that time nowhere on the Internet or in brick and mortar stores was there a stuffed animal that duplicated Bunny. Maybe now, some twenty years later, search engines and social media might have evolved to the point where I could find a Bunny clone. But not then. Second, I know that despite the fact that my daughter eventually moved beyond Bunny, initially, none of the seemingly similar Bunny substitutes ever approached the original.
We have, of course, moved far beyond my search for Bunny. Today folks seem willing to go to truly incomprehensible lengths to replace the irreplaceable. If we are willing to try to clone our pets - google it, truly creepy - can trying to clone our children, partners - ourselves, be far behind? It would remain a sci-fi fantasy if we could just realize that the essential chord that truly defines all existence - from Michelangelo to Rover to the original David - is absolutely unique; lies beyond duplication.
As I point out in The God Chord, our chord, built of the vibrating strings replicated in their billions throughout every cell in our body, evolves constantly. I suppose our hubris and technology might one day simultaneously evolve to the point that would allow us to “grab a chord of the instant.” But, as in the “many worlds” interpretation of quantum mechanics, it seems highly likely that any entity associated with that captured chord would evolve in its own unique path, unassociated with the entity from whom the chord had been snatched.
Let me try to summarize the assumptions contained within this strange ramble, which was even longer and more tortured in its creation, than in your reading of it.
First, the “originality" of creations of genius resides more in process than in product. The original is deeply imbued with the chord of its creator, at a level we still cannot measure or observe. Hence we cannot begin to replicate that original - digitally or otherwise. So after that original creative marriage of process and product, the mold is broken, never to be truly duplicated.
Second, the further from the creation of original - time, medium, method - the unique chord of the copy becomes an ever fainter version of the original chord. Consider numbered prints— say 1/50. Why is 1 of 50 still seen as “better” than 25 of 50? Here the notion of the digital clone does challenge the common production assertions that as the plates wear out the edges of the etching become less distinct, hence making the lower numbered prints “better.” However, Distilled Harmony would assert that later copies of the original - even digital copies - are further removed from the creation of the original work and hence contain ever fainter versions of the original chord. And that assertion reaffirms the greater the harmonic value of earlier, lower numbered, copies.
Finally, somehow we would know the difference. Maybe we need to think about the idea of a diminished chord, as implied above. A friend of mine used to write the classical music reviews for the local paper. In the last few years of her life CDs were just coming into prominence. She refused to use them to inform her reviews. I do not know if she knew that the process of digital recording deletes some of the auditory signal present in analog recording. After all the amount of signal lost in a digital recording is supposed to be “undetectable” to the human ear. But she could tell that something was missing. And in this instance what she was hearing was that increased distance from the original performance that caused the original chord to grow fainter, to diminish.
In that instance the fading of the chord was literal in a musical sense. But Distilled Harmony asserts that whether it is David, or Mozart, or perhaps even Bunny, there is a difference between the original work popped out of that first mold, and the copies that follow. The process of genius creates the chord captured in the original work; subsequent copies attempt to replicate the original. It is an effort doomed to a certain degree of failure. But we should remember the value of those failures, for without them we would be denied even the echo of the original.
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