Copy Cat Creativity
Parshas Devarim: The creative role of tradition
What is Art?
No idea, I'm afraid.
Art's true nature remains stubbornly elusive, like a conceptual version of Bigfoot. Not for nothing has it mystified sharper minds than mine. Although Plato despised the arts as producing corrupt imitations of reality, Aristotle considered these activities both creative and rational. If I'm honest, I barely register my socks' colour, so visiting the gallery is more likely to evoke a mild yawn than fiery philosophical polemics.
Having said that, something about modern art gets under my skin. This is by no means a hot take. I'm hardly breaking new ground in mocking our current crop of artistic 'masterpieces'. Nevertheless, when a Banana duct-taped to a wall sells for one hundred and twenty thousand euro1, who can help but wonder at the sheer absurdity of it all? I'm reasonably confident I could achieve a similar effect with store-bought bananas and blue tack. Perhaps I'll use the money saved to decorate an entire gallery with bizarre adhesive fruits.
But what if modern art's meaningless is its meaning? Philosopher William Barret argued that the creations we self-consciously identify as "modern art" are merely products of their time. This is our Art. If society could achieve a different or superior form of expression, we would have already produced it. For Barret, artworks reflect the prevailing attitude of the era which spawns them. Kind of like sponges soaking up the atmosphere of their time, inhaling and exhaling the same cultural air we breathe. The more vexed we find ourselves with the products of a modern art gallery, the more we disclose the truth that we, ourselves, and our larger society are caught up in whatever the artwork reveals.
Take, for example, how medieval painters' flat style gave way to a three-dimensional perspective during the Renaissance. Whilst, on one level, it was a result of technical innovations, this imaginative shift also mirrored the outward-looking mindset of Renaissance man. The world was his oyster. For him, a whole universe was unfolding in 3D. Modern society has no such disillusion. The Enlightenment wrestled meaning-making authority from God; people wanted to create their own value through unlimited technological and societal progress. Yet this seductive narrative spurred unimaginable horror. Our technologies advanced at dizzying velocity, allowing for atomic stockpiles, bureaucratic centralisation, ethnic cleansing, and war's mechanised meat grinder.
Consequently, humanity has been left aimless. Modernity is opaque, purposeless and obscure, and its artists draw on the reality they know. Contemporary art darkly emulates our world with its contorted figures, crooked forms, and confusing designs—a world where man is a stranger.
Whilst the analysis so far is essential to my overall point, the crux of my argument will be built on the premise that I shall now outline. As well as conveying our generation's alienation, today's artistic works expose how our approach to creativity has been perverted. Twenty-first-century society cherishes few things more than being an individual, discovering yourself, or finding your truth. Individuality is king, and part of this trend has seen innovation emerge as a cultural obsession. Our idols are silicon valley start-up gurus and standout celebrities.
Conversely, we demonise imitation and conformity. Those who stubbornly cling to their religion, creed or community are viewed with a strange mix of aversion, pity and intrigue. Streaming services cynically exploit these attitudes, pumping out voyeuristic representations of religious life.
What's wrong with overemphasising innovation? And can the malign presence of this approach be discerned in art? According to French polymath René Girard, innovation always occurs within a system; nothing meaningful is created ex nihilo. Often, we assume that creativity means obliterating the status quo. But history shows that staying within the constraints of what came before is often the surest path to achievement. As plants can't grow with their roots in the air, we cannot conjure things out of nothing. Novelty requires the wisdom that led to our present.
History abounds with examples of replication being a prerequisite for progress. Goethe masterfully reproduced the great poetic forms before pioneering his own. Einstein spent years studying and imitating classical physics before improving them with his theory of general relativity. In the 2000s, many considered Alibaba, a copycat of eBay or Amazon. But by the 2010s, Alibaba had developed new business models that did not exist in Western tech.
Modernity rejects conformity, insisting on continuous originality at all costs. You can never do what others do, think how others think or act as others act. Given that this is impossible, a negative mimicry arises, which sterilises anything and everything. What we get instead are grotesque exhibitions of arbitrary originality. So much modern art seems nihilistic, aimless and absurd. Artists historically pursued higher goals like beauty, truth, or accurately capturing the world. Now they want to be outrageously original. And whilst this approach has produced some rare masterpieces, its general outcome has been meaningless dross. Art's trajectory perfectly traces humanity's arc. Yes, it exudes meaninglessness, but it's not just that. In the same way art uprooted itself from its fertile tradition, we have also cut ourselves off from our past. We wanted to be ourselves but ended up being no one.
Everything written up to this point carries religious implications. However, a reading of Rabeinu Bachaya's introduction to this week's Parsha gives these ideas an explicitly Jewish application. The Parsha begins with the words:
אלה הדברים אשר דבר משה אל כל ישראל
These are the words that Moshe addressed to all of Israel.
After explaining extensively that all five books of the Torah form an interconnected, unified entity, Rabeinu Bachaya focuses on the latter verse. He is bothered by the following question: If, as outlined, the five books belong to a single whole, the book of Devarim should really beginואלה הדברים 'and these are the words' thus linking the final book with all that has come before it. His response is especially insightful, given our discussion until now. Devarim is indeed a critical part of the Torah corpus, but it differs from the first four sections in a significant way. Our sages refer to Devarim as Mishna Torah, a repetition of the Torah. This is because it records Moshe repeating the Torah to the Jewish people. Whereas so far, the Torah has been God's direct word, now we hear it conveyed through the filter of our greatest leader. The lack of the word 'and' at the start of this Parsha thus indicates a conceptual break.
Rav Lopiansky develops this idea by explaining how God manifests on earth in two guises. Directly through miraculous deeds, but also in a second manner. This other type of revelation occurs when humans strive to imitate the Divine and draw holiness into creation via our actions. As the verse instructs us:
And [you shall] walk in His ways.
{Devarim 28:9}
So when God bestows loving kindness on the world and brings rain, causing crops to grow, that is one revelation of his greatness. When we mimic and echo him by becoming people of loving-kindness, God becomes revealed again through our replication. Thus our deeds exhibit an aspect of the divine, translating infinity into the physical. Until the book of Devarim, the revelation was directed from Hashem to Moshe. But, now Moshe re-transmits the Torah. He expresses the divine word within the human dialect. What was said from on high is being told from within. As Moshe speaks, Torah and soul converge in an intertwining of eternity and time. The word of God and the voice of man. This is God's ultimate praise in this world.
As Jews and servants of God, we are involved in continuous acts of copying. All of us strive, however hopelessly, to imitate God. But whilst we get on with things and do what we must, it's challenging not to feel out of place in an atmosphere where our very participation in communal service seems antiquated.
At first glance, dusty books and age-old traditions offer scant clout against the latest fad. But what we have seen here is a critical reorientation of perspective. Our counterclaim is twofold. We must first know that our world's helter-skelter scramble for uniqueness, singularity and improvisation conceals a decaying essence which propels the whole operation. Society yearns with nauseating banality for the "fresh" and "exciting" while masking a spiritual vacuum at its centre. But more importantly, we should realise that in guarding and developing our own heritage, we become active participants in God's development of this world. It's OK to think of ourselves as copycats, but know that we are also creators.
Good Shabbos, and Keep Pondering!
Wow! Another outstanding piece Yaacov.
This reminds me of something that Johann Hari said in his book “Stolen Focus”. He says that creativity is not creating something new because there is nothing really new in this world. Creativity is taking things that already exist and making new associations or connections between them. In today’s society, we don’t let our minds wander, we are constantly connected to a never ending digital scroll and therefore our minds don’t have the space to make those connections.
I think it’s so true that the art today reflects the state of our society. I’ve never thought of it that way but it rings true (your article images notwithstanding).
I love the idea that “copying” G-d is a way of creating something new, and I loved the last line: “It’s ok to think of ourselves as copycats, but know that we are also creators.”
Beautiful devar Torah. But on the subject of copycat art, there's a wonderful book about how all art is new recombinations of what came before: STEAL LIKE AN ARTIST by Austin Kleon.