Art historians of the 20th century created narratives in which artists influenced other artists (Michelangelo/ Borromini, Twombly/ Basquiat) by implying that it was somehow a transaction from copied to copier when it could only ever be the other way around. Artists influence other artists if artists are willing in some way to look at other artists’ art and copy what they see. But influenced as these historians were (and contemporary critics are) by the originality cults of the Romantic and Modern movements in art (or is it the other way around?) they recoiled at the idea that any “great” artist would copy anything (despite proclamations to the contrary by artists such as Picasso among others).
Once again contemporary computer science has learned some hard lessons from which we in the arts can relearn what we should already know. Imitation, computer scientists are discovering, is inherently (and possibly uniquely) human. It is difficult to teach to an animal or a machine. It involves not just observation but an understanding of intent, considerations of the motivations of the originator of whatever it is you want to imitate. So far, today’s robots can sometimes learn to exactly replicate a particular action, but they can’t imitate in the way that even children can, because instead of developing an understanding of what they want to emulate they like old school AIs are merely looking to replicate patterns of movement.
Imitation rarely entails automatic or mindless duplication. It instead entails cracking a code—solving what social scientists call the “correspondence problem”, the challenge of adapting an imitated solution to the particulars of a new situation. This involves breaking down an observed solution into its constituent parts, then reassembling the parts in a different way. It demands a willingness to look past superficial features to the deeper reason why the original solution succeeded, and an ability to apply that underlying principle in a novel setting. Imitation thusly considered demands not mimicry but creativity.
In art (and architecture) true originality is a search for origins, a deep understanding of them then nothing more (or less) than the successful application of that understanding to something new. We doubt this could ever be taught but we have no doubt that without the skills engendered by techniques of imitation—those techniques with which we teach ourselves-- there is no hope that true originality can ever emerge.
Much has been said about the originality of Frank Gehry’s architecture and its genesis. One anecdote (probably originating from the architect himself) that describes childhood encounters with fish in his grandmother’s bathtub (as they waited to be turned into gefilte fish) has often been offered as a tidy psychoanalytical explanation for his compulsion for fish shapes, at first literal (Barcelona Olympics 1992) then metaphorical (Bilbao Guggenheim, 1997). But it’s more likely that his early exposure to and interest in furniture design and later experiments with furniture fabrication that -- maybe second only to his association with his artist friends -- most influenced his approach to building design.
Furniture design is less mediated than building design and depends crucially on the making of prototypes—a full-size model and a detailed understanding of the materials of its parts and how they fit together. Its design cannot be separated from how it is made. Buildings, like furniture are made, but the design of them is highly mediated through drawings and models. Models of buildings are not buildings in the same way that a furniture prototype is like the furniture of which it is a model.
Gehry chose models as his primary design tool when most of his peers relied on drawings. Like furniture design he shapes buildings by employing models—sometimes so huge they are almost like prototypes—to understand the behavior of materials and how to shape and assemble them. This process—the emphasis on large models and construction methods -- is an example of an application of the correspondence problem. He applies a technique taken from one genre, furniture design (the full-scale prototype) and translates it through a change of scale into another genre, building design (a technique he borrowed from his artist friend Claus Oldenburg). The innovation was not to copy from other architects but from other genres.
This was a leap, a difficult one to pull off, and risky with failed or mediocre attempts occasionally giving way to spectacular results some of it pretty close to inimitable. But Gehry’s contribution was also as much a recovery of tradition as it was innovative—a recovery of pre-Renaissance building traditions, a return to the unmediated experience of the master builders of cathedrals and monasteries who relied less on drawings and instead enjoyed hard earned, passed down, hands on knowledge of building techniques, the behavior of stone, and its outer limits of performance. His originality, while guided by predecessors such Aalto, Utzon and Saarinen who he clearly emulated, is rooted in having through his own personal, painful, and protracted process of discovery, rediscovered architecture’s origins in our desire to push at the boundaries of what can be built and how to build it.