Spanning the course of three millennia, the art of ancient Egypt stands out for its unique continuity. The fundamental rules of Pharaonic art were established around 3000 bc. The proportions of the human body, the style of cubist representation in relief and painting, the division of a tomb or temple wall into strips, and the adaptation of diverse forms into simple hieroglyphic images remained the principle elements of Egyptian art until the Imperial Roman era.

“Copying”: this practice, in China as elsewhere, was and still is the first exercise of every apprenticeship at the same time as an irreplaceable technique for spreading know-how, talent, and innovation; but the place and interest accorded to it throw light on the rather special positions being taken up. Thus, when a Chinese author speaks of copy, he is thinking primarily of the “copy-image,” in two dimensions. Sculpture in China plays a religious and propitiatory role; it only indirectly gives rise to reflections about art. The copies of objects thus found themselves relegated to the sphere of the utilitarian, even of the frankly deceptive (the “fakes”); they held little interest for esthetes, with a single exception: that of archaic bronzes, which I shall be dealing with later since they fall within the scope of an overall reflection on history, ritual, and the foundations of the state. Now the latter, like the bases of painting, flow from an original cultural context, the elements of which that are most resistant to comparison are language and writing.

Among the tricky questions posed by artistic creation, some relate in particular to the capacity of human beings to reproduce things and to the right they have (or grant themselves) to act in this way. This activity, when aimed for example at identical reproduction, is called “copy” by art critics, historians, and those who take an interest in the aesthetics of objects. I will not attempt to discuss the subtleties involved in the use of different terms to describe the activity of the reproduction of works of art; when an artist “imitates,” is that copying? To what extent is the new work admissible? To what category do users and connoisseurs assign it? These and other questions will be answered in the wider context of my examination of the relationship between the unique and the multiple in African societies. The problems of an original's copy or replica are not viewed in the same light in all parts of the world, not only because of the dictum “truth on our side of the border, error on theirs” but above all because the status of the plastic work is not the same and its existence and validity are not governed by the same laws and customs. However, in all societies that create, the “copy” poses problems which Africa cannot elude and which arise there in a manner at once similar and different from that of contemporary Western societies.

The originals of great classical Greek statuary—cult idols (agalmata) raised in the cella of a temple, or ex-voto (anathemata, offerings) dedicated in a sanctuary, or even, more rarely, political dedications erected in public places, were not destined to be copied and only the pure chance of history, from the fall of Greece to Rome and the emergence of a taste for these works of art, gave rise to a process of copying that would snowball. The Urbild of a Roman imperial effigy was never to remain unique. Quite the contrary, it was, by its very nature, destined to be multiplied from the moment of its completion, for the sake of propaganda and thorough distribution of the emperor's image. At first, we cannot imagine a situation more different. However, today, the historical value of these copies is the same, the original having disappeared in one case as in the other. This is not the only paradox.

Few aspects of social behavior tell us more about a culture than those practices that involve the roles it assigns to models and copies. Under interpretation, such conduct reveals its attitudes toward authority and antiquity, its sense of identity and regard for security, and the relative importance that it attached to imitation and invention. To varying degrees, all societies display these concerns, but in none were they so firmly grounded in a considered theory of the relation between prototype and derivative as they were in Byzantium. An example from the domain of law will illustrate, though not explain, this cultural difference. As against the Roman tradition in which the use of copies as evidence in court was prohibited, at least from the tenth century on Byzantine tribunals accepted the legitimacy of certified copies of documents. The very word used for an official copy—ison, meaning equal— suggests the conceptual distinction between it and the terms copie, Kopie, kopiya, and so on, in modern languages, all derived from the Latin word for abundance.

Stendhal, Voyage en France, 1837

If we compare the forms that the act of copying has assumed in various civilizations, we cannot fail to notice that a certain number of phenomena are specific to European culture since the Renaissance. Perhaps one of the most singular of these phenomena is the will to create and to possess imperishable reproductions of works that have been singled out, at a given moment, as the brightest jewels of Western art. The history of the fortune of Graeco-Roman sculptures has been masterfully related by Francis Haskell and Nicholas Penny in Taste and the Antique: The Lure of Classical Sculpture 1500-1900, even if it would no doubt be worthwhile to give further consideration to the critical fortune of materials used for reproduction, and particularly to the particular prestige attached to bronze—from the Mantuan works of Antico to the reconstitutions of Greek Urbilder in bronze, instead of the plaster used earlier, which were executed at the beginning of the twentieth century, such as the two Doryphoros that Georg Römer realized from various ancient marble copies of Polyclitus's athlete. But, in fact, it was not only in modern Europe that copies were made in bronze. The production of copies using this alloy was particularly prevalent in imperial China after the rediscovery, in the second half of the eleventh century of our era, of a collection of archaic bronzes from the Shang era. This is why I prefer to call attention to a practice that appears to me, in contrast, to be unique to the Western world: the copying of renowned paintings in materials that are supposed to defy time.

The old idea of the masterpiece, the bane of artists throughout the century that is now drawing to a close, is barely recognizable any more. For the general public, this idea remains a facile cliché that is always ready when needed to put an end to a serious discourse on art. Only the label, not the idea itself, was left when artists came to the point of holding masterpieces responsible for the tenacious survival of outdated artistic ideals. The idea of perfected art has become so far removed from the object of its incarnation that we have long been forced to seek the masterpiece by other names. On the other hand, the term masterpiece lends itself to cut-rate uses in which the Utopian content is but a dim gleam. The avantgarde, in search of a scapegoat, decries favored artistic objects as false idols or as fetishes of art. The Mona Lisa, which did not achieve the status of a universal idol until the nineteenth century, thus became the prime target of ill humor: was it not the very epitome of society's trivialization (and mystification) of art?

The word “virtual” comes from the latin virtus, virtue, which itself comes from the latin vir, man. As for the word “real” it comes from the latin res, thing. One could say that the virtual is the man and the real is the thing. How does one resist the temptation of placing the virtual in opposition to the real, as a metaphor of the man who places himself “in” the world and who confronts things? The virtual opposes the real, as man does the world, in order to transform it and even transcend it.

From the jumping bean controversy, through his jousts with Malraux, to his charge against Picasso, Roger Caillois's attitude remained the same: a fear of the seductions of misunderstood originality, a condemnation of the fear of influence that characterized the moderns, and praise for imitation, conceived as the only true school of art. Originality, according to the formula he was fond of repeating time and again in the most varied contexts, consists not in refraining from imitating anyone else, but rather in beine inimitable.