Double Vision: Reflections on Originals, Copies, and the Mystery of Value

I recently came across a story about two paintings — one an undisputed Vermeer, the other a mysterious twin that looks almost the same but carries no signature. They are now displayed side by side in London, and experts debate what this “second version” really is. A copy? A student exercise? A failed experiment? Or something more?

Reading about it, I realized this is more than an art mystery. It feels like a mirror held up to life itself. We all deal with questions of originality, authenticity, and duplication — not just in paintings, but in people, in choices, in how we live day to day.

The weight of being “original”

There is always a pressure to be original. We praise uniqueness, innovation, and creativity, while we look down on what we call imitation. Yet, the more I think about it, the harder it is to define originality. What is truly original in this world? Every new idea is built on something that came before. Every word we say has been said by someone else in another way.

Maybe originality is not about inventing something completely new but about leaving a trace that only you could leave. Like Vermeer’s brushstrokes — the pigments, the textures, the little details that even a near-perfect copy cannot fully reproduce. In life, our originality may be in the details too: the way we laugh, the way we love, the way we fail.

Copies are not empty

We tend to dismiss copies, but sometimes copies reveal truths the original hides. The “twin” Vermeer doesn’t have the expensive pigments or the signature. It might be technically less valuable, but it forces us to ask: why do we value one object more than another? Is it the scarcity? The brand of the name? Or the story we attach to it?

In our own lives, we “copy” constantly — habits, behaviors, even dreams borrowed from people around us. That doesn’t always make them worthless. Sometimes imitation is the first step toward finding a voice. Sometimes what looks like a copy is, in fact, a reflection of something deeply real.

Time as the ultimate painter

Another thought that struck me is how time itself becomes an artist. The twin painting carries cracks, faded colors, and pigments that don’t shine like the original. But isn’t that what happens to all of us? Time paints us with its own palette. It erases, it fades, it adds lines where there were none.

And strangely, those marks of time carry authenticity of their own. A flawless surface can be suspicious; a cracked one tells a story. Maybe the same is true of people. The scars, the wrinkles, the mistakes — these are not flaws but evidence that we were here, that we lived.

Everyone has a twin

When I think about the idea of a mysterious double, I can’t help but connect it to the human experience. Each of us has an “original” self we project to the world and a “twin” self that lives in the shadows. One signed, one unsigned. One polished, one raw.

Sometimes we prefer to show the signed version, the part of us that looks official, presentable, worth recognition. But the unsigned version is no less real. It might even be more honest, less concerned with approval. Just like with the paintings, the absence of a signature doesn’t mean absence of value.

What gives something its worth?

The story of these two canvases is a reminder that value is not absolute. A painting can be priceless not because of the pigments on the surface, but because of the narrative we build around it. In the same way, a person’s worth can’t be reduced to a job title, a bank account, or a diploma. These are just the “signatures.” What really matters is harder to measure: the kindness we give, the love we share, the ideas we spark in others.

We live in a world obsessed with proof and labels, yet some of the most important things come unsigned. A moment of joy, a shared glance, a lesson learned in silence. These have no certificate of authenticity, but they are real.

In the end

The Vermeer exhibition is more than an art event. It is a metaphor about life. Originals and copies coexist, and both have something to teach us. Perfection is not the only path to truth. Time is not an enemy but a collaborator. And every one of us has a signed version and an unsigned version, both equally part of who we are.

Maybe we don’t need to chase originality with desperation. Maybe the point is simply to live in such a way that, signature or not, something of us remains — something unmistakably ours.

Because whether we are the original painting or the mysterious twin, we are still here, hanging side by side, waiting for someone to look closely enough to see us.