L'art est Mort – Vive L'art.
Hundreds of years ago, a photograph was taken of me. Chances are, you might have seen it. Of me sitting on my throne, smiling while my mane is blurred. A famous picture in the realm of photography. Not because I was the first pony to be photographed, but in a way, I helped made a strong case for it during a time when such technology was looked down upon.
Ponies today don’t know this, but even before I sat down on my throne to be photographed, the decision was quite controversial. Even years after it was taken, critics bemoaned that I had endorsed my image at all.
To understand why, I would have to tell the conditions that came about.
The year was 835, and over in Prance, an invention was created roughly ten or so years prior. That was the development of a camera that could fix an image onto a plate which was then known as the daguerreotype. It may not sound like much now, but at the time, the very idea that a machine could through a set of chemicals capture a very realistic image through light was astonishing. Nopony thought it possible a sharp image would be made in a matter of minutes that would give details that not even a well-seasoned painter could capture. As soon as I heard of it, I wanted to see it for myself. And indeed, though without color, the realism astonished me. So, I asked those early photographers in Prance to come to Equestria to see if they would make a portrait of me.
“It’s a wonder why Celestia would want to degrade herself like this.”
This comment was said aloud a week after I made my decision. If I recall, it came about at what used to be the Lilac Ball – and annual dance among the Canterlot elite that used to be held every June first. Back then, I attended these social gatherings partly to show solidarity for the nobility, and partly as an excuse to hear the latest gossip to gage the political climate. In this case, when I heard that, it caught my attention. And it didn’t take me long to see where it came from.
It came from an art critic… A.R. Compose – he was someone who was reaching into his sixties, often opinionated in both in person and in print, he was at the time known as the critic who made or break careers in the art world. Even now I can still remember what he looked like. A hefty unicorn, dressed smartly from his cravat to the dark blue suit that covered his faded ocher coat. His golden mane had turned gray long ago at that point. And if I remember right, in his aura was a glass of half-empty champagne. He was talking to two other critics. Avant and his older brother, Kitsch. I think they were twins because apart from the clothes they wore, one couldn’t tell them apart. Both unicorns, they were as blue as the sky and had manes of flaming orange.
“I don’t see why not.” Avant said, “The daguerreotype has come a long way, I think. My brother and I were in Paris last year and we went to an exhibition at one of the salons. We had seen the earliest experiments where you could barely make out an image at all to the latest ones that are much clearer. The technology has certainly improved, I hear that it now takes five minutes from start to finish to develop a picture compared to the half a day that used to be.”
“Still, I can tell you Compose that you’re not missing much,” Kitsch added between sips of his drink. “What I saw were a few landscapes, pictures of everyday objects, and a hooful of blurry portraits. Having clarity is one thing, but they all seemed like they didn’t take any effort to make. What, just snatching a few ponies off the street, dolling up in costumes, and posing them is what makes it art? I mean, is it art if the one taking these pictures doesn’t know the rules of art?”
“I see your point,” Compose nodded, “But more than that, it’s an insult to painting.”
At this point I was curious; only then that I decide to approach them. “What is an insult to painting?”
“Princess Celestia,” Compose and the twins bowed. “How do you do, Your Majesty?”
“Doing quite well. Please forgive me, but I couldn’t help but overhear some of your conversation. Something about photography?”
“Well yes, as a matter of fact, we were discussing the merits of your… upcoming portrait.”
“Merits?”
“The whole thing is quite simple,” Avant explained. “Since we’ve heard that you’ve summoned a few daguerreotypists to come to take your portrait, we were discussing if this would be considered art at all.”
I looked between them. “What does that mean?”
“Well, no offense intended, Your Highness,” Compose said. “It’s just… Is it wise to give into such a fad as this? When you get down to it, that is certainly what this this is – just a gimmick. A scientific tool at best. But recently that these things sprang up, the daguerreotypists had the nerve to call themselves artists.” He laughed. “But really, it is an insult to art.”
“Insult doesn’t begin to describe it.” Kitsch nodded. “I’ve known artists, Princess. They have spent years and years honing their craft just to get what they’re depicting just right. Not just in drawing but in painting too has taken them years to learn how to manipulate so that it looks like the real thing. All those years of learning such a skill is something worth admiring. Yet, to have someone who uses a machine to simply take a picture with a press of a button goes into a dark room to splash chemicals (some of which I hear are poisonous) and then have the nerve to claim that what they made is art is… It boggles the mind.”
“And the pictures they produce now.” Compose shook his head, “Recently, Your Majesty, they had put together these light studios to make tableaus depicting historical events. Even classical literature, but I can surely say that they are merely cheap imitations of painting.”
Avant rolled his eyes, “I’m beginning to wonder that your reason for dismissing the daguerreotype is simply because it’s new. Has it ever occurred to you that the camera might be a new tool for the artist? Maybe to help advance or, Her Majesty forbid, might give birth to a new genre. One that we don’t know the rules to yet.”
“And yet, there lies a great danger.” Compose pointed out.
“Danger?” I tilted my head. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Think about it. If or when that contraption becomes advanced when they figure out the trick to give it color and even make the process where everyone could do it – what then is an artist to do? I fear that if this trend continues any further, those poor painters will be judged on the quality of their work from the photograph. Really, it doesn’t seem fair. Considering that the photographic industry is a refuge of every would-be painter, who is too ill-endowed or too lazy to complete in studies.”
“That is where I’m confused.” I asked them, “Isn’t the point of art is to depict the world as best to one’s abilities?”
The three of them looked at one another. “Traditionally speaking,” Kitsch responded. “The role of artists was to beautify the world and express truth through their medium. It’s not enough to simply mimic what is out in the natural world – but to use these rules to depict something much nobler, much higher than what is presented. For instance, I doubt that some of your portraits depicted actual events but were given a hint of imagination to highlight the meaning they’re portraying.”
“Imagination, that is a good word for it.” Compose nodded. “What the daguerreotypists seem to lack is just that – imagination. Even when they try in their terrible tableaus, it is obvious that it's all staged. Unlike painting where even though it does take liberties, at least it tries to give you the illusion of what you're seeing really is what it says it is.”
“That’s a fancy way of saying that all painting is good for is to lie.” Avant frowned. “But I know that is neither true nor fair. Where you all scoff at photography, I’m not fully convinced that it should be tossed aside either. Maybe it would never overtake painting, but perhaps they would still find a way to use it to make pictures that we may have never seen before. The idea of experimenting with light and shadow, perhaps learn how to overlap images or capture the world that our eyes can’t see. But only the camera can. Maybe I might be out of line, but I’m not quite ready to dismiss it altogether.”
“Innovation is fine but that’s not what we’re worried about,” Kitsch said. “From my view, although photography hasn’t quite gotten there yet, once it figures out how to capture color – what is preventing any thief from simply taking a picture of an original artwork and simply passing it off as their own? The danger I’m seeing is that if everyone had such a machine, what is preventing them from stealing an image that others labored so hard, only to be spirited away by someone else?”
“I agree, but more than that.” Compose added, “What would the camera do to artworks, whose value is that you had to travel to a specific place to look at one unique thing – when you could just have it in your pocket? How would any work of art be considered special or valuable when everyone can see it and not go to the original?”
At this point, I cleared my throat. “Pardon me, but you three were so deep in conversation that none of you had asked me why I’m going to have my picture taken in the first place.”
Compose turned red when he heard that. “Oh… Beg your pardon, Your Majesty. But yes, why are you doing this?”
“Partly because I want to see for myself what these cameras can do in person. And partly to give the daguerreotypists a fair chance. I remember back when things like opera were new and ponies had shouted from the mountaintops that it would bring the doom of civilization. Only, it didn’t. I was there when the novel was first published, and ponies were red in the face saying that it would ruin storytelling as they know it. I was there when the idea of actors putting on a thing called a play was considered scandalous and a danger to society. And maybe photography won’t go anywhere, I have seen plenty of fads that come and go, but it would be unwise to simply shove them away because they’re too strange and new.”
“Why is that?” Kitsch tilted his head.
“Well… humor me in this thought experiment. Imagine for a moment that photography had existed at least a thousand years before painting. Imagine the technology had kept on changing and ponies were excited for the variations of textures, tones, and colors they could experiment with. Imagine entire galleries dedicated to photography of the past, where critics and viewers come to admire and critique. Imagine schools over the centuries had taught students the rules of composition with these mechanical instruments. Now, after a thousand years of this, painting is introduced for the first time. A medium where ponies had to spent days, even years on a single image. Where they had to mix this gloopy stuff called paint that is hard to control with tools that are finicky at best. Oftentimes leaving the image as strange or distorted. Where after all that, it is meant to hang up in one specific place where only a hoofful of ponies can view it. What would critics think?”
Compose and Kitsch went quiet. Yet the only reaction from the three of them was from Avant, who replied, “Then it sounds to me that the new, needs friends.”
I nodded, “Besides, it’s already been arranged and paid for. I would act out of bad faith, especially to Prance to back out of this now. I’m curious to see what they can do.”
A week later, the first photographers came to the palace. They introduced themselves, and their equipment, and even took the time to explain the process of imprinting an image onto a polished silver-plated copperplate. They showed the chemicals they carried with them, the portable dark room with a red dark lantern to illuminate their tiny space, and even the camera that had a big lens sticking out. From there, they calculated how much time it would take from how much light there was in the throne room.
After that, they instructed me that I would have to remain perfectly still for up to three minutes. I watched them prepare, setting up a tripod for the camera, checking me from under a long dark cloak while I sat on my throne. They prepared a plate, slipped into the machine, and counted down for me to hold still. Right before they took off the cap, I gave a smile and did my best to hold still. While I knew that my mane would be blurry in the picture as I could not stop it, having to hold that pose for so long – I can tell you that I felt every second of those three minutes. An eternity to not do anything, not even blink or resist the urge to twitch as my image was being captured by nothing but light.
It was only until they put the cap back on that I was able to relax and watch them immediately go to work. Watching them develop a picture was fascinating to watch, almost like the most experimental form of alchemy. I witnessed that's copper plate was filled with chemicals, splashed over with water, heated by fire, and then doused with more chemicals and heated again. After several minutes, they presented my first photograph to me. Although I admitted that I wished my mane wasn’t moving, I had never seen any that captured my image as honestly as this was.
When they asked if I wanted something engraved in the picture below, I with a knowing smile told them the exact words to carve, to give my approval of this latest invention.
L'art est mort – vive l'art.
Art is dead – long live art.
