Why Walter Benjamin Still Matters

In his essay “The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technological Reproducibility,” Walter Benjamin examines the effect of mechanical reproduction on the function of art. The innovations that made an increase in reproduction and distribution possible—things like photography, newsreel, and later film—have transformed into extremes unfathomable to Benjamin’s era, but nonetheless relevant to his theses. His descriptions of the destabilizing nature of photography and film, as well as his interpretation of the relationship between art and politics, are studies undeniably pertinent in the realm of social media today.

In the early 20th century, modernization took reproducibility to new bounds. Not long before, a printing press was the only replicating tool to speak of. Suddenly, film was an emerging industry. This development begged a redefinition of art, one which Benjamin thought would be impossible to construct. The process of creating film, its capital value, and its ability to reach masses challenged the traditional criteria associated with art. Benjamin outlines these criteria in concrete terms.

What he refers to as “the aura” characterizes art. This whimsical term describes the here and now, the cult value, the history of an art piece. Art must merit the study of its past—the places that have seen it and the hands that have held it. This here and now, consisting of the traces of inheritance, the traditional significance, and the context to which an art piece testifies, determines its authenticity. Photography, and especially film, threatens this uniqueness. Benjamin worried that these media were not only threatening, but obliterating. Ultimately, authenticity and reproducibility have an inverse relationship. The more reproduced something is, the less unique. What happens to the aura when reproduction defines success?

The nature of film starts to answer this question, for its success depends on its reproduction. Here, the goal of distribution mandates the process of creation. Greek art is a helpful comparison. The Greeks used molds and stamps, but otherwise, each piece came from scratch. This limitation assured individuality and maintained “aura.” In film, however, actors and technology alike are selected based on their ability to support the characteristic objective of the industry: to reach the masses. From writing the script to finessing special effects, each decision in creating the film depends on this ambition.  The goal to reproduce limits creativity. Even so, those involved in the creation of the film believe that their contribution is an act of individualism--one that exercises the right to self-expression and self-preservation. The masses consuming this media similarly misconceive the degree of their freedom. The decision to see a film is only a liberty until the projection begins. Then the audience, believing they are indulging themselves in a delightful distraction, become subject to a prescribed reception. In this setting, the audience has no time to form an opinion on the image in front of them before it transforms into a new image. Impulse and collective shock, which surrounding reactions inform, determine the audience’s response. Reproducibility, that is, challenges principles of individual thought, freedom of expression, and diversity of interpretation. 

Reading these concerns (over and over again until the dense, academic language became clear), I sympathized for films like “Boyhood” and “Before Sunrise.” These films feel unique. Watching them allows contemplation. The reason for their authentic nature aligns with Benjamin’s thesis. In “Boyhood,” the same actors returned year after year to play their parts. Their aging was genuine, impossible to replicate. The film’s creation involved minimal editing. It moves at a pace similar to normal life; nothing too shocking happens. Viewers have time to formulate an opinion, independent of instinct. The characters evoke empathy, but their stories are close enough to our own that we don’t forget the banalities of everyday life. Similarly, another one of Richard Linklater’s genius films, “Before Sunrise,” lacks much of a script. The extensive dialogue is indicative of a here and now, a lack of preparation, an allowance of spontaneity. It’s true—Linklater’s films are, by nature, more authentic than a Blockbuster conveniently released in the summer, when young viewers are blissfully detached from their usual schedules. But they still raise the question: are they authentic art? Because of their widespread distribution (albeit unexpected), their display before an audience reacting in a collective manner, and the specific order of scene after scene, they might not be. At least not according to our resident curmudgeon, Walter Benjamin.

The mass distribution that film epitomizes, no matter how well-crafted the art, can become a means of homogenization and propaganda. For this reason, Benjamin believed that mixing art and politics can harm standards of credibility. In a fascist society, he explained, politicians bring art into politics. They repackage images familiar to society in a way that is comforting, a way that diffuses protest. As Benjamin wrote, “Such is the anesthetizing of politics, as practiced by fascism.” Alternatively, artists bring art into politics, not to distract or sedate viewers, but rather to make them realize the injustices they perceive as standard. Benjamin described this distinction between the use of art in politics and the use of politics in art. Contrasting the latter to fascism, he wrote, “Communism replies by politicizing art.” Communism and fascism aside, if art and politics mingle, the aura suffers. If the goal is to reach people, to preserve a statement and impose a belief, the creator sacrifices the here and now to the goal of publicity. The intrusion of politics transforms the function of art into a tool of homogenization.

This notion—that art in the age of its reproducibility is a manipulative tool, for better or for worse—is seemingly radical. But its indisputable truth becomes clear in the overwhelming world of social media. These platforms allow for anyone to be an artist, political expert, activist, celebrity. The mere seconds it takes to publish a post grants free speech to a new degree. Each publication makes its debut with a common intention: for people to notice. From a bikini shot on the beach to a politically charged caption, the “artist” makes a statement. Social media makes autonomy a public commodity. Phrases like “USA not NRA,” “I stand with Planned Parenthood,” and, several years ago, “Pray for Paris,” give people a sense of freedom, a sense that what they are saying is making some sort of change. But do these hot air declarations, attracting flocks of people desperate for identification, really do anything? I would say not much, except for maybe polarize people. The ability to define oneself in an Instagram bio is an outlet for a new kind of polarization. Would you like to be a radical liberal or a classy WASP? Choose your own adventure, social media says, when really the available paths are quite narrow. As Benjamin predicted, reproducibility has not allowed for infinite diversity through genuine expression but rather divided ideals into neatly packaged identities.

Recovering the aura—which according to Benjamin, is impossible given certain technological innovations—might just be possible if we do so in oblivion. Benjamin offers the notion that true art is critically unique. It is fleeting, an experience that happens once and is not replicated in another space and time. This definition aligns with a hippie-dippie proposition: life is art. Telling a joke and making a friend laugh, sharing stories after dinner, singing camp songs on a hike, is art. We do not approach the experience with the expectation that it will inspire a new sense of reality. No panel explains, in unavoidably decontextualized terms, the artist’s intention. No surrounding gasps or claps shock us into imitation. Only then is the reception profound. The moment we open Snapchat and record the memory for our future selves, for an audience unknown, we compromise the specialty of each fleeting moment. In a culture inseparable from reproducibility, the true artist understands Benjamin’s dilemma. He must find the aura in moments impossible to preserve.