I refrain from using "plagiarism" to describe this phenomenon, as the most blatant plagiarism occurs between works of the same genre: consider the paintings of Artists Ye and Xu, which are near carbon copies of others' works—an unmistakable case of plagiarism. The controversy surrounding Artist Zhang’s "Xiaohongshu appropriation," however, extends beyond legal copyright issues. Even if consent was obtained from the subjects in the images, it doesn’t mitigate the public’s stunned disbelief upon realizing, "So this is how 'artistic creation' works now?"

What underlies this shock? While insiders are well aware of contemporary art’s declining spiritual rigor, the brazen exposure of art’s fall from elitism—its reliance on stealing from mass trends—lays bare an uncomfortable truth. Ready-made images, like pre-cooked meals, are tweaked and served. The takeaway? Everyone’s an artist now—except the professionals.

Why "Xiaohongshu Appropriation Art" Deserves Critique？First, we must clarify why Artist Zhang’s approach doesn’t qualify as "found object" or "appropriation" art. Found objects became artistic expressions as a natural evolution of conceptual art, symbolizing the deconstruction of traditional academic systems and embodying contemporary art’s core tenet: independent spirit. This independence isn’t just about Duchamp’s urinal upending artistic norms—it’s about transcending discipline to uncover new layers, possibilities, and critiques in the mundane. Even kitsch maestro Jeff Koons, in his controversial appropriations of ads and consumer goods, retains a whiff of critique: our lives are as abundant as advertisements, yet as hollow; as cheerful as cheap trinkets, yet as terrifyingly empty.

Did Artist Zhang’s Xiaohongshu venture spawn "new meaning"? Before the scandal, her works sold briskly, riding on their obvious aesthetic appeal: narrative ambiance requiring no explanation, petit-bourgeois filter tones, and decorativeness tailor-made for entry-level "artsy" interiors.

All this caters to superficial sensory pleasure. As Mark Rothko noted: "Our society has substituted taste for truth in art. We prioritize pleasure over responsibility, changing tastes as frequently as hats or shoes." Indeed, art now occupies the same space as consumer goods and entertainment. In an era where cheap aesthetics are effortlessly accessible, even "artists"—once synonymous with creativity—have lost originality. When narcissistic aesthetics can’t even originate, we’re left recycling secondhand imagery into third- or fourth-hand copies. Screen-age creators must confront the pervasive "secondhandness" and "indirectness" in contemporary works and make conscious choices.

Andy Warhol mastered replication and appropriation. His genius lay in weaponizing industrial reproduction’s inevitable violence against life itself, embedding icy critique beneath the surface. Consider his garish Marilyn portraits: each color-shifted copy further obscures and exploits her humanity. As Walter Benjamin observed in his 1936 essay The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, this is the "withering of aura."

The replication age feeds illusory gratification—instant but never fulfilling. Even the most perfect copy lacks "the here and now of the artwork—its unique existence in the place where it stands." This "unique existence" isn’t ephemeral; it’s the authenticity that, rooted in life’s rhythm (not mechanical reproduction), perpetuates itself infinitely through successive "here and nows."

Roman Opalka’s practice epitomized this: from 1965 until his death in 2011, he painted numbers sequentially from "1" toward infinity. The black canvas gradually whitened until the numbers vanished into blankness. His labor wasn’t replication (which diminishes sovereignty) but repetition (which asserts it). Each stroke reaffirmed his will; the final "empty" canvas radiated his lifelong defiance of oblivion.

If we don’t stop producing "secondhand objects," human creativity will never surpass AI’s.

Why does advanced technology weaken creativity? Convenience breeds complacency. Creators rely on tools for everything, but even the smartest AI can’t produce a Duchamp while excelling at Rembrandt replicas. Tools easily copy objective "representation" but fail at subjective "expression"—the truth of the soul. Those dependent on tools forget how to touch reality’s infinitude.

Hannah Arendt’s 1958 The Human Condition pinpointed the divide: making versus acting, work versus deed. She termed those stuck in "making" and "work" as "homo faber"—those who "see nature as raw material to cut and re-stitch." AI is our era’s ultimate homo faber, and its rise has made humans lazier versions of it. Everything becomes a means to an end, with efficiency as the sole metric. Thus, the seemingly omnipotent homo faber strips all things of intrinsic value, reducing even themselves to tools of utility.

Surrounded by screens and drowning in cheap aesthetics, how does creativity survive? Only through authenticity—art’s sole vital lifeline.

This authenticity lies in honesty toward reality. Why do Luc Tuymans’ screen-memory paintings feel genuine despite their mediated origins? Because they channel真实的 alienation and humanistic pity—honest emotional responses, not manufactured atmospherics.

It lies in embracing imperfection. Benjamin advocated "positive barbarism": civilization may sacrifice refinement to preserve vitality. Like the Fauves’ shocking colors, which let artists retain fervor amid industrialization, refusing to become cold technicians.

Most crucially, it lies in returning to life’s natural rhythm. Only by relinquishing功利 goals can we rediscover our cadence and re-enter the generative flow. In today’s hyper-commercialized art world, this is arduous—but skipping process for replication is artistic suicide.

As Rothko declared: "The conscience of art is its authenticity."