The Case for Originality

A few weeks ago, Jerry Saltz, New York magazine’s senior art critic (and perhaps the art-world’s most bizarre/meme-worthy Instagram presence) posted a scathing denunciation of Qiu Xiaofei’s PACE Gallery exhibition, Double Pendelum. “Worst show in Chelsea,” he wrote, adding that Xiaofei’s “paintings [are] so unoriginal they could have been made any time after 1982.” Regardless of whether Xiaofei’s paintings are actually beautiful, pleasant, or satisfying, the accusation of unoriginality seems to render every other aspect of his paintings a moot point — if it’s not original, it’s not worth consideration. But I wondered whether this assessment really gave Xiaofei’s work its due? The assertion of “unoriginality” is a matter of opinion, but let’s roll with it for a while. Derivative as it might be, does this “unoriginality” really detract from the painting itself, or from the viewer’s experience of it? These days it’s hard to imagine viewing any work in a vacuum, but if we stretched our minds enough to indulge this thought experiment, would we enjoy Xiaofei’s work any more or less if we didn’t know whether he had pioneered a certain visual style or not?

The equation that original=good is actually a relatively new one, historically speaking. Granted, many of the most famous painters from this long period carved out their own incredibly unique styles to make names for themselves (e.g. El Greco), and many exceptional others privileged different traits, details, or regional conventions (e.g. Pieter Breughel the Elder, Hieronymous Bosch). But even up until the late 19th and early 20th century, too much originality was abruptly dismissed as bad art. Monet’s Impression, Sunrise was met with harsh criticism at its first showing, and Fauvist artists like Matisse and Derain were lambasted by critics at the 1905 Salon d’Automne (with the terms “impressionism” and “fauve” originally used derogatorily). Throughout the history of painting before photography, even with all the styles that flourished pre-19th century, there was always an ideal that art could fully visually capture a subject — it didn’t always matter what was being portrayed, but rather how accurate it was.

All this is to say that “following the textbook” has only recently become a negative guiding principle. In theory, if something is good, it should be repeated so that it can be enjoyed over and over again, right? But these days, especially, employees in nearly every sector of the economy are encouraged to be “daring,” “creative,” “revolutionary,” and even “disruptive” — the textbook seems to have flown out the window in favor of an ever-accelerating dialectic of change. Whether the victory of global capitalism and the increasingly fast-paced and technologically-connected world are to blame for this is another matter entirely. But with this trend in mind, what would it mean to turn back to the textbook, and would it be worth it?

Let’s think about it in terms of music. As one of the most creative yet often formulaic artistic media, modern and contemporary music seem to always push the limits of style in every conceivable direction. Even pop music, engineered to follow tried-and-true song structures at the lowest common denominator, always seems to capitalize on the trailblazing of visionary artists. Think about how, with the rise of dubstep, techno, EDM, drum n’ bass, and even trap music (even Katy Perry has collaborated with Juicy J), pop has digested and regurgitated the hallmarks of these styles.

But I’m sure I’m not alone when I say I’ve had many moments where I’ve heard a particular song or artist, replayed them ad infinitum. And in each case, I thought to myself, “Why can’t I find anything else that sounds like this?!” When I first heard The Weeknd, I was hooked by the unique juxtaposition of dark, lush, and vaguely threatening beats with the beautiful melodies and absolutely filthy subject matter. I remember searching “dark R&B” and “artists like The Weeknd” only to click the same pages over and over; there simply wasn’t anyone doing music quite like what he was doing. And while both the originality and the execution make him a great artist, to whom I give immense credit, I still wished there was more like him.

On the other end of the spectrum are artists like Future, Young Thug, Gucci Mane, and even Lil B, whose prolific consistency mean that you have access to a nearly-infinite catalogue of similar sounds. Granted, these are all individual artists who have pioneered unique and original styles, so their originality is not in question, but their output is so vast that they already have all you could ever ask for. The question then is if they keep sticking to the same formula, will they be worse artists for it? We know what to expect when we hear their music, to an extent. They might be celebrated for continuing to produce works that match the conventions they’ve pioneered. Sure, every new song has new elements to it — new beats and new verses — but we still want that core DNA to keep giving us the music that just hits that certain spot. The paradox is that we also expect progression and innovation within that sound at the same time as we want those specific conventions.

All of these artists have released some of their most acclaimed works well into their careers, though. Even though they pioneered the style, it took a while for them to refine it (or for public perception to catch up), so they’ve had a lot of progression already in their catalogues. Compare that to a group like the Wu-Tang Clan, whose debut 36 Chambers was probably their greatest accomplishment to date. Nowadays we still know what to expect from the Clan and most of their members. We don’t necessarily expect them to surpass their established greatness, but we may still want to listen to some more variation within the tried-and-true style we know and love. But the problem is that those new releases don’t have the staying power. Maybe its nostalgia, but when they follow their own textbook textbook, we just don’t enjoy it as much as when we found it for the first time.

Originality has an aura of purity, a thrill, and a giddy delight. Like a first love, the feeling has lasting power. But when originality becomes standardized, there’s a fine line between a welcome plurality and a dilution of the whole style. When Lakai’s Fully Flared first dropped in 2007, the skateboard world went ape-shit — the production quality of the video and the innovations of their super-technical ledge and manual tricks blew many people’s ideas of what a skater could do right out of the water. Bookended by Mike Mo Capaldi’s never-been-done ledge combos and Marc Johnson’s epic and virtuosic 14-minute part, the video solidified Crailtap’s legendary video status (Mouse, Yeah Right!, and now Fully Flared) and ushered in a new era of street skating. Suddenly everyone was trying to emulate the tricks they’d seen. Torey Pudwills, Shane O’neills, Cory Kennedys, and Nyjah Hustons popped up from out of every hole in California and flooded the internet with new local parts and sponsor-me tapes. While other brands like Emerica and Alien Workshop put out equally masterful tapes in the wake of that drop, something shifted where greater emphasis was being placed on how technical one could get flipping in and out of a manual or grind (or both).

From there, Street League, the Maloof Money Cup, and other competitions started establishing themselves. This new focus on technicality meant more clear-cut ways to judge a skater based on their trick combos. For a quasi-sport/subculture that had prized style and originality equally as the most daring exploits, this era of commercialization seemed to dilute the significance of the textbook that the Lakai team had just written — they flooded the skate world with that style, and the bubble grew big enough that innovation was stifled even as the tricks got more complex. When Pretty Sweet came out in 2013, to me it felt stale. There was no way to be WOW-ed like when I first saw Fully Flared.

Luckily, there’s been a resurgence of originality. Though Nyjah Huston is still primarily a competition skater pushing the boundaries of how technically amazing and athletically gifted a skateboarder can be, the popularity of other core shops and brands has pushed back against the textbook with the promise of style over substance. Supreme, Palace, and Bronze56k don’t necessarily feature of the “best” skaters, and they don’t keep filming until they land every trick just perfectly, but their styles and aesthetics always deliver on creativity. The goofiness of Louie Barletta, hippie tricks of Richie Jackson, and struggling-to-skate-everything of Gou Miyagi are front and center once again. And while I’ll still go back and admire the masterpiece that is Fully Flared, I’m not as eager to see Pretty Sweet any more. Once the style got too diluted and all sense of the FF‘s originality was gone was exactly the moment that the originality seemed to matter again.

Ironically, this torrent of derivations of Fully Flared‘s style actually makes Fully Flared stand out even more to me. It’s like the opposite of the “Seinfeld effect” (where watching Seinfeld now seems unfunny because every sitcom has taken it as a foundation and built way more on top of it). Now there’s a nostalgia factor for me when I see Fully Flared — it’s as if my memory of its originality at the time preserves a sense of its originality even after all the similar skating that came after it. It seems that you can have too much of a good thing. Good things can get stale, and when they do, the most important marker of quality becomes the timeline of originality rather than the best execution.

The Weeknd’s style is on a similar path. With artists like PARTYNEXTDOOR, Travi$ Scott, iLoveMakonnen, and even Drake incorporating elements of his style, we’re in a sweet spot where nothing is played out yet and every bit of Abel’s influence is welcome. But the question is whether it will become played out. Good things become popular, and the more popular they are, the more diluted they become. Sure, the cream will rise to the top, but with such saturation it may not draw as much excitement anymore. In the end, originality, newness, and even excellence are bound up with their temporal context.

So then what gives works their greatness across time — what gives it lasting power? Is it that it was the best example of a new style? This would make sense. After all, Caravaggio’s works are masterpieces of a unique style of Baroque that no one was really able to emulate. But there’s something else to this formula. Caravaggio pioneered his style, which is why no one was quite able to match it. Even though there were other great Baroque painters, the ones with lasting power created their own unique styles within that larger movement. Sure, there were plenty of artists who incorporated elements from Caravaggio and Rubens, but we don’t revere them like we do Caravaggio and Rubens. Like Fully Flared, maybe artistic greatness is also a collective memory of its initial originality.

This can only be true because of the art-historical world, which houses perpetual memory and knowledge of who-did-it-first. But then what about the people who don’t know that history? Well then, isn’t originality just whichever example of a style you come across first? By what authority is Caravaggio better than Caracciolo if you encounter Caracciolo first? Only by the collective/cultural history of originality. Even if Caracciolo put his own unique spin on the style (for which he should certainly be appreciated), the change wasn’t radical enough to really give him his own designation as a major “influence” rather than an “influence-d.”

So where does this leave Xiaofei? His work is good, pleasant to look at, but not visually original. Does this detract from his art? Maybe, but to whom? For those who are well-versed in the history of modern and contemporary art, it may seem well-executed, but boring. But to a lay audience, so to speak, his art could be a revelation. As for someone interested in art history but not in the art world, I can happily say I enjoy looking at it. It’s a visual style I like, so I’m eager to see all its permutations. But will it have lasting power? Maybe. To some, Xiaofei is taking on interesting questions in a new context, but to others it’s only good enough to satisfy a short-term interest his work. But on the whole, it may not ultimately be original or radical enough to keep revisiting it. Like it or not, we’re on a path where innovation is paramount, and everyone is afraid of being left behind. Originality is here to stay, and as for now, its reign seems endless.