THE ART OF LIVING WITH ART

Jen (2023). Original (left) and limited edition print (right).

What does it mean to live with art?

Not just decorate with it—but live with it. To allow it to be a participant in your space, a witness to your mornings, your dinners, your arguments, your prayers. A thing with presence. With pulse.

That’s a question I return to again and again—not just as an artist, but as someone who knows what it means to stand in front of a piece that stops time, or at least slows it down enough to breathe differently.

Original art has that power. It doesn’t ask for permission. It doesn’t seek to flatter. It just exists—utterly itself—and you, as the viewer, have the rare privilege of encountering something unrepeatable.

And yet… we live in a time when the copy has become king. When high-resolution prints, faithful reproductions, and screen-perfect canvases offer us access to beauty on a budget. There is nothing inherently wrong with that. Sometimes, the copy is the gateway. Sometimes it’s the only way a piece of art can be lived with, admired, studied, loved.

So what's the difference?

The Aura of the Original

Walter Benjamin, in his seminal essay "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction", wrote about the “aura” of the original artwork—that peculiar sense of presence which cannot be replicated. It's not merely the patina of age or the trace of a brushstroke. It’s something less measurable: the hum of an object that knows it was made in a moment, by a hand, with a mind behind it.

When you stand in front of an original, you stand in proximity to intention. To process. To the unedited truth of someone else’s vision.

But Benjamin’s ideas, while foundational, are not the final word. In our digital age, where NFTs and AI-generated art challenge traditional notions of originality, the concept of the “aura” becomes even more complex. What does it mean for an artwork to be original when it exists as a digital file, infinitely reproducible yet uniquely authenticated? These questions push us to reconsider not just the value of the original, but the very nature of art itself.

The Poetry of Prints

There’s a poetry to the print, too. Not every wall calls for the weight of an original. Sometimes what we want is presence without pressure, beauty without burden. A well-made reproduction can offer a point of access—a way into a conversation we might not otherwise feel permitted to enter.

Think of it like this: a beautifully bound poetry collection and a handwritten poem on a napkin are both legitimate vessels for verse. One is formal, reproducible, a tribute. The other is singular, intimate, one-of-one. Both can move you. Both can belong.

And let’s not forget the cultural dimension. In some traditions, the act of copying is not seen as inferior but as a form of reverence. Think of Chinese calligraphy, where students spend years replicating the works of masters to internalize their technique and spirit. Here, the copy is not a diminishment but a bridge to understanding.

Living with Art: A Thought Experiment

Picture two rooms.

One contains an original painting. You see where the artist scraped back the paint, where a bristle caught and left a hair in the surface. The work is imperfect, but undeniably present. It shifts with the light, with your mood, with time.

The other room features a faithful reproduction. The image is true, the colors correct, the composition unchanged. But there’s a stillness. A remove. A subtle distance—like speaking through glass.

Neither room is wrong. But only one contains the thing itself.

The Emotional Economy

There’s an emotional economy that attaches to original works. Not just in terms of price or potential appreciation, but in narrative weight. In how they hold space. In how they ask to be seen.

Original art asserts itself as a product of time, effort, risk. But more than that—it insists on particularity. This moment. This hand. This way of seeing.

A reproduction may invite admiration. An original asks for attention.

Yet, we must also acknowledge the practical realities. For many, original art is a luxury, accessible only to those with the means to acquire it. Reproductions democratize beauty, allowing people of all backgrounds to bring art into their lives. This tension between exclusivity and accessibility is a crucial part of the conversation.

A Matter of Tempo

In the end, the distinction between original and reproduction isn’t always a matter of hierarchy—it can be a matter of tempo, of mood, of stage in life. One does not invalidate the other. But the original, like live music or handwritten letters, has a peculiar gravity. It draws you in. It resists being background.

So here's something to sit with: How do you choose to live with art? Is it the original that speaks to you, with its imperfections and its aura? Or is it the reproduction, with its accessibility and its quiet charm? Perhaps it’s both, depending on the season of your life.

Whatever your answer, the act of choosing is itself a form of engagement—a way of saying yes to beauty, to meaning, to the pulse of something other than ourselves. What will you let into your space?