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Walter Benjamin, "The
Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction" (1936)
(excerpts):
[Epigraph
from Paul Valery:] "Our fine arts were developed, their types
and uses were established, in times very different from the present,
by men whose power of action upon things was insignificant in
comparison with ours. But the amazing growth of our techniques,
the adaptability and precision they have attained, the ideas and
habits they are creating, make it a certainty that profound changes
are impending in the ancient craft of the Beautiful. In all the
arts there is a physical component which can no longer be considered
or treated as it used to be, which cannot remain unaffected by
our modern knowledge and power. For the last twenty years neither
matter nor space nor time has been what it was from time immemorial.
We must expect great innovations to transform the entire technique
of the arts, thereby affecting artistic invention itself and perhaps
even bringing about an amazing change in our very notion of art."
[from Preface]
. . . They ["theses
about the developmental tendencies of art under present conditions"]
brush aside a number of outmoded concepts, such as creativity
and genius, eternal value and mystery—concepts whose uncontrolled
(and at present almost uncontrollable) application would lead
to a processing of data in the Fascist sense. The concepts which
are introduced into the theory of art in what follows differ from
the more familiar terms in that they are completely useless for
the purposes of Fascism. They are, on the other hand, useful for
the formulation of revolutionary demands in the politics of art.
[from Section
I]
These convergent endeavors made predictable
a situation which Paul Valery pointed up in this sentence: "Just
as water, gas, and electricity are brought into our houses from
far off to satisfy our needs in response to a minimal effort,
so we shall be supplied with visual or auditory images, which
will appear and disappear at a simple movement of the hand, hardly
more than a sign." Around
1900 technical reproduction had reached a standard that not only
permitted it to reproduce all transmitted works of art and thus
to cause the most profound change in their impact upon the public;
it also had captured a place of its own among the artistic processes.
[from
Section II]
Even
the most perfect reproduction of a work of art is lacking in one
element: its presence in time and space, its unique existence
at the place where it happens to be. This unique existence of
the work of art determined the history to which it was subject
throughout the time of its existence. This includes the changes
which it may have suffered in physical condition over the years
as well as the various changes in its ownership. The traces of
the first can be revealed only by chemical or physical analyses
which it is impossible to perform on a reproduction; changes of
ownership are subject to a tradition which must be traced from
the situation of the original.
The presence
of the original is the prerequisite to the concept of authenticity.
Chemical analyses of the patina of a bronze can help to establish
this, as does the proof that a given manuscript of the Middle
Ages stems from an archive of the fifteenth century. The
whole sphere of authenticity is outside technical—and, of
course, not only technical—reproducibility. Confronted with
its manual reproduction, which was usually branded as a forgery,
the original preserved all its authority; not so vis a vis technical
reproduction. The reason is twofold. First, process reproduction
is more independent of the original than manual reproduction.
For example, in photography, process reproduction can bring out
those aspects of the original that are unattainable to the naked
eye yet accessible to the lens, which is adjustable and chooses
its angle at will. And photographic reproduction, with the aid
of certain processes, such as enlargement or slow motion, can
capture images which escape natural vision. Secondly,
technical reproduction can put the copy of the original into situations
which would be out of reach for the original itself. Above all,
it enables the original to meet the beholder halfway, be it in
the form of a photograph or a phonograph record. The cathedral
leaves its locale to be received in the studio of a lover of art;
the choral production, performed in an auditorium or in the open
air, resounds in the drawing room.
The
situations into which the product of mechanical reproduction can
be brought may not touch the actual work of art, yet the quality
of its presence is always depreciated. This holds not only for
the art work but also, for instance, for a landscape which passes
in review before the spectator in a movie. In
the case of the art object, a most sensitive nucleus—namely,
its authenticity—is interfered with whereas no natural object
is vulnerable on that score. The
authenticity of a thing is the essence of all that is transmissible
from its beginning, ranging from its substantive duration to its
testimony to the history which it has experienced. Since the historical
testimony rests on the authenticity, the former, too, is jeopardized
by reproduction when substantive duration ceases to matter. And
what is really jeopardized when the historical testimony is affected
is the authority of the object.
One
might subsume the eliminated element in the term "aura" and go
on to say: that which withers in the age of mechanical reproduction
is the aura of the work of art. This
is a symptomatic process whose significance points beyond the
realm of art. One
might generalize by saying: the technique of reproduction detaches
the reproduced object from the domain of tradition. By making
many reproductions it substitutes a plurality of copies for a
unique existence. And in permitting the reproduction to
meet the beholder or listener in his own particular situation,
it reactivates the object reproduced. These
two processes lead to a tremendous shattering of tradition which
is the obverse of the contemporary crisis and renewal of mankind.
Both processes are intimately connected with the contemporary
mass movements. Their most powerful agent is the film. Its social
significance, particularly in its most positive form, is inconceivable
without its destructive, cathartic aspect, that is, the liquidation
of the traditional value of the cultural heritage. . . .
[from
Section III]
During long periods of history, the
mode of human sense perception changes with humanity's entire
mode of existence. The manner in which human sense perception
is organized, the medium in which it is accomplished, is determined
not only by nature but by historical circumstances as well.
The
concept of aura which was proposed above with reference to historical
objects may usefully be illustrated with reference to the aura
of natural ones. We define the aura of the latter as the unique
phenomenon of a distance, however close it may be. If, while resting
on a summer afternoon, you follow with your eyes a mountain range
on the horizon or a branch which casts its shadow over you, you
experience the aura of those mountains, of that branch. This
image makes it easy to comprehend the social bases of the contemporary
decay of the aura. It rests on two circumstances, both of which
are related to the increasing significance of the masses in contemporary
life. Namely, the
desire of contemporary masses to bring things "closer" spatially
and humanly, which is just as ardent as their bent toward overcoming
the uniqueness of every reality by accepting its reproduction.
Every day the urge grows stronger to get hold of an object at
very close range by way of its likeness, its reproduction.
Unmistakably, reproduction as offered by picture magazines and
newsreels differs from the image seen by the unarmed eye. Uniqueness
and permanence are as closely linked in the latter as are transitoriness
and reproducibility in the former. To
pry an object from its shell, to destroy its aura, is the mark
of a perception whose "sense of the universal equality of things"
has increased to such a degree that it extracts it even from a
unique object by means of reproduction. . . .
[from
Section IV]
The
uniqueness of a work of art is inseparable from its being imbedded
in the fabric of tradition. This tradition itself is thoroughly
alive and extremely changeable. An ancient statue of Venus,
for example, stood in a different traditional context with the
Greeks, who made it an object of veneration, than with the clerics
of the Middle Ages, who viewed it as an ominous idol. Both
of them, however, were equally confronted with its uniqueness,
that is, its aura. Originally
the contextual integration of art in tradition found its expression
in the cult. We know that the earliest art works originated in
the service of a ritual—first the magical, then the religious
kind. It is significant that the existence of the work of art
with reference to its aura is never entirely separated from its
ritual function. In other words, the unique value of the "authentic"
work of art has its basis in ritual, the location of its original
use value. This ritualistic basis, however remote, is still recognizable
as secularized ritual even in the most profane forms of the cult
of beauty.
An analysis of art in the age of
mechanical reproduction must do justice to these relationships,
for they lead us to an all-important insight: for the first time
in world history, mechanical reproduction emancipates the work
of art from its parasitical dependence on ritual. To an ever greater
degree the work of art reproduced becomes the work of art designed
for reproducibility. From a photographic negative, for example,
one can make any number of prints; to ask for the "authentic"
print makes no sense. But the instant the criterion of authenticity
ceases to be applicable to artistic production, the total function
of art is reversed. Instead of being based on ritual, it begins
to be based on another practice—politics.
[from
Section V]
Works
of art are received and valued on different planes. Two polar
types stand out; with one, the accent is on the cult value; with
the other, on the exhibition value of the work. Artistic
production begins with ceremonial objects destined to serve in
a cult. One may assume that what mattered
was their existence, not their being on view. The elk portrayed
by the man of the Stone Age on the walls of his cave was an instrument
of magic. He did expose it to his fellow men, but in the main
it was meant for the spirits. Today the cult value would seem
to demand that the work of art remain hidden. Certain statues
of gods are accessible only to the priest in the cella; certain
Madonnas remain covered nearly all year round; certain sculptures
on medieval cathedrals are invisible to the spectator on ground
level. With the emancipation of the various
art practices from ritual go increasing opportunities for the
exhibition of their products. It is easier to exhibit a
portrait bust that can be sent here and there than to exhibit
the statue of a divinity that has its fixed place in the interior
of a temple. The same holds for the painting as against the mosaic
or fresco that preceded it. And even though the public presentability
of a mass originally may have been just as great as that of a
symphony, the latter originated at the moment when its public
presentability promised to surpass that of the mass.
With the
different methods of technical reproduction of a work of art,
its fitness for exhibition increased to such an extent that the
quantitative shift between its two poles turned into a qualitative
transformation of its nature. This is comparable to the situation
of the work of art in prehistoric times when, by the absolute
emphasis on its cult value, it was, first and foremost, an instrument
of magic. Only later did it come to be recognized as a work of
art. In the same way today, by the absolute emphasis on its exhibition
value the work of art becomes a creation with entirely new functions,
among which the one we are conscious of, the artistic function,
later may be recognized as incidental. This much is certain: today
photography and the film are the most serviceable exemplifications
of this new function.
[from
Section VII]
. . . Earlier much
futile thought had been devoted to the question of whether photography
is an art. The primary question—whether the very invention
of photography had not transformed the entire nature of art—was
not raised.
[from
Section VIII]
Hence, the performance of the actor
is subjected to a series of optical tests. This is the first consequence
of the fact that the actor's performance is presented by means
of a camera. Also, the film actor lacks the opportunity of the
stage actor to adjust to the audience during his performance,
since he does not present his performance to the audience in person.
This permits the audience to take the position of a critic, without
experiencing any personal contact with the actor. The audience's
identification with the actor is really an identification with
the camera. Consequently the audience takes the position of the
camera; its approach is that of testing. This is not the approach
to which cult values may be exposed.
[from
Section XI]
The shooting of a film, especially of a sound film, affords a
spectacle unimaginable anywhere at any time before this. It presents
a process in which it is impossible to assign to a spectator a
viewpoint which would exclude from the actual scene such extraneous
accessories as camera equipment, lighting machinery, staff assistants,
etc.—unless his eye were on a line parallel with the lens.
This circumstance, more than any other, renders superficial and
insignificant any possible similarity between a scene in the studio
and one on the stage. In the theater one is well aware of the
place from which the play cannot immediately be detected as illusionary.
There is no such place for the movie scene that is being shot.
Its illusionary nature is that of the second degree, the result
of cutting. That is to say, in the
studio the mechanical equipment has penetrated so deeply into
reality that its pure aspect freed from the foreign substance
of equipment is the result of a special procedure, namely, the
shooting by the specially adjusted camera and the mounting of
the shot together with other similar ones. The equipment-free
aspect of reality here has become the height of artifice; the
sight of immediate reality has become an orchid in the land of
technology.
[from
Section XII]
Mechanical reproduction of art changes
the reaction of the masses toward art. The reactionary attitude
toward a Picasso painting changes into the progressive reaction
toward a Chaplin movie. The progressive reaction is characterized
by the direct, intimate fusion of visual and emotional enjoyment
with the orientation of the expert. Such fusion is of great social
significance. The greater the decrease in the social significance
of an art form, the sharper the distinction between criticism
and enjoyment by the public. The conventional is uncritically
enjoyed, and the truly new is criticized with aversion. With regard
to the screen, the critical and the receptive attitudes of the
public coincide.
[from
Section XIII]
Since the Psychopathology of
Everyday Life things have changed. This book isolated and
made analyzable things which had heretofore floated along unnoticed
in the broad stream of perception. For the entire spectrum of
optical, and now also acoustical, perception the film has brought
about a similar deepening of apperception.
By
close-ups of the things around us, by focusing on hidden details
of familiar objects, by exploring common place milieus under the
ingenious guidance of the camera, the film, on the one hand, extends
our comprehension of the necessities which rule our lives; on
the other hand, it manages to assure us of an immense and unexpected
field of action. Our taverns and our metropolitan streets, our
offices and furnished rooms, our railroad stations and our factories
appeared to have us locked up hopelessly. Then came the film and
burst this prison-world asunder by the dynamite of the tenth of
a second, so that now, in the midst of its far-flung ruins and
debris, we calmly and adventurously go traveling. With the close-up,
space expands; with slow motion, movement is extended. The enlargement
of a snapshot does not simply render more precise what in any
case was visible, though unclear: it reveals entirely new structural
formations of the subject. So, too, slow motion not only presents
familiar qualities of movement but reveals in them entirely unknown
ones "which, far from looking like retarded rapid movements, give
the effect of singularly gliding, floating, supernatural motions."
[from
Section XIV]
In the decline of middle-class society,
contemplation became a school for asocial behavior; it was countered
by distraction as a variant of social conduct. Dadaistic activities
actually assured a rather vehement distraction by making works
of art the center of scandal. One requirement was foremost: to
outrage the public.
From an alluring
appearance or persuasive structure of sound the work of art of
the Dadaists became an instrument of ballistics. It hit the spectator
like a bullet, it happened to him, thus acquiring a tactile quality.
It promoted a demand for the film, the distracting element of
which is also primarily tactile, being based on changes of place
and focus which periodically assail the spectator. Let
us compare the screen on which a film unfolds with the canvas
of a painting. The painting invites the spectator to contemplation;
before it the spectator can abandon himself to his associations.
Before the movie frame he cannot do so. No sooner has his eye
grasped a scene than it is already changed. It cannot be arrested.
Duhamel, who detests the film and knows nothing of its significance,
though something of its structure, notes this circumstance as
follows: "I can no longer think what I want to think. My thoughts
have been replaced by moving images." The spectator's process
of association in view of these images is indeed interrupted by
their constant, sudden change. This constitutes the shock effect
of the film, which, like all shocks, should be cushioned by heightened
presence of mind. By means of its technical structure, the film
has taken the physical shock effect out of the wrappers in which
Dadaism had, as it were, kept it inside the moral shock effect.
[Section
XV]
What he objects
to most is the kind of participation which the movie elicits from
the masses. Duhamel calls the movie "a pastime for helots, a diversion
for uneducated, wretched, worn-out creatures who are consumed
by their worries a spectacle which requires no concentration and
presupposes no intelligence which kindles no light in the heart
and awakens no hope other than the ridiculous one of someday becoming
a 'star' in Los Angeles." Clearly, this is at bottom the same
ancient lament that the masses seek distraction whereas art demands
concentration from the spectator. That is a commonplace.
The question
remains whether it provides a platform for the analysis of the
film. A closer look is needed here. Distraction
and concentration form polar opposites which may be stated as
follows: A man who concentrates before a work of art is absorbed
by it. He enters into this work of an the way legend tells of
the Chinese painter when he viewed his finished painting.
In contrast, the distracted mass absorbs the work of art. This
is most obvious with regard to buildings. Architecture has always
represented the prototype of a work of art the reception of which
is consummated by a collectivity in a state of distraction. The
laws of its reception are most instructive.
Buildings have
been man's companions since primeval times. Many art forms have
developed and perished. Tragedy begins with the Greeks, is extinguished
with them, and after centuries its "rules" only are revived. The
epic poem, which had its origin in the youth of nations, expires
in Europe at the end of the Renaissance. Panel painting is a creation
of the Middle Ages, and nothing guarantees its uninterrupted existence.
But the human need for shelter is lasting. Architecture has never
been idle. Its history is more ancient than that of any other
art, and its claim to being a living force has significance in
every attempt to comprehend the relationship of the masses to
art. Buildings are appropriated in a twofold manner: by use and
by perception—or rather, by touch and sight. Such appropriation
cannot be understood in terms of the attentive concentration of
a tourist before a famous building. On the tactile side there
is no counterpart to contemplation on the optical side. Tactile
appropriation is accomplished not so much by attention as by habit.
As regards architecture, habit determines to a large extent even
optical reception. The latter, too, occurs much less through rapt
attention than by noticing the object in incidental fashion. This
mode of appropriation, developed with reference to architecture,
in certain circumstances acquires canonical value. For the tasks
which face the human apparatus of perception at the turning points
of history cannot be solved by optical means, that is, by contemplation,
alone. They are mastered gradually by habit, under the guidance
of tactile appropriation.
The
distracted person, too, can form habits. More, the ability to
master certain tasks in a state of distraction proves that their
solution has become a matter of habit. Distraction as provided
by art presents a covert control of the extent to which new tasks
have become soluble by apperception. Since, moreover, individuals
are tempted to avoid such tasks, art will tackle the most difficult
and most important ones where it is able to mobilize the masses.
Today it does so in the film. Reception in a state of distraction,
which is increasing noticeably in all fields of art and is symptomatic
of profound changes in apperception, finds in the film its true
.means of exercise. The film with its
shock effect meets this mode of reception halfway. The film makes
the cult value recede into the background not only by putting
the public in the position of the critic, but also by the fact
that at the movies this position requires no attention. The public
is an examiner, but an absent-minded one.
[from
Epilogue]
The
growing proletarianization of modern man and the increasing formation
of masses are two aspects of the same process. Fascism attempts
to organize the newly created proletarian masses without affecting
the property structure which the masses strive to eliminate. Fascism
sees its salvation in giving these masses not their right, but
instead a chance to express themselves. The masses have a right
to change property relations; Fascism seeks to give them an expression
while preserving property. The logical result of Fascism is the
introduction of aesthetics into political life. The violation
of the masses, whom Fascism, with its Führer cult, forces
to their knees, has its counterpart in the violation of an apparatus
which is pressed into the production of ritual values.
All efforts to render politics
aesthetic culminate in one thing: war. War and war only can set
a goal for mass movements on the largest scale while respecting
the traditional property system. This is the political formula
for the situation. The technological formula may be stated as
follows: Only war makes it possible to mobilize all of today's
technical resources while maintaining the property system. . . .
. . .If the natural utilization of productive
forces is impeded by the property system, the increase in technical
devices, in speed, and in the sources of energy will press for
an unnatural utilization, and this is found in war. The destructiveness
of war furnishes proof that society has not been mature enough
to incorporate technology as its organ, that technology has not
been sufficiently developed to cope with the elemental forces
of society. . . . This is the situation of politics
which Fascism is rendering aesthetic. Communism responds by politicizing
art.
[from Benjamin's Notes]
(Note #5:) The definition of the
aura as a "unique phenomenon of a distance however close
it may be" represents nothing but the formulation of the
cult value of the work of art in categories of space and time
perception. Distance is the opposite of closeness. The essentially
distant object is the unapproachable one. Unapproachability is
indeed a major quality of the cult image. True to its nature,
it remains "distant, however close it may be." The closeness
which one may gain from its subject matter does not impair the
distance which it retains in its appearance.
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= one of the main points of the lecture 
