Matt Ridley: When ideas have sex

Robert Johnson made no deal with the devil; he listened to and learned from his colleagues.

In “Beyond Authorship: Refiguring Rights in Traditional Culture and Bioknowledge,” the Case Western Reserve University English Department’s Authorship Collaborative (building on the work of my colleague and friend Martha Woodmansee) explains that the prevailing view of an author as the originator of new works is a relatively recent phenomenon arising out of the Romantic Movement and its view of an artist as someone uniquely inspired. This view of authorship stands in stark contrast to an older view becoming new again in today’s remix cutlure — a view that creative endeavors are derivative and collaborative, that originality is not the product of isolated genius but of, well, remixing:

An “author” in the modern sense is the creator of unique literary, or artistic, “works” the originality of which warrants their protection under laws of intellectual property — Anglo American “copyright” and European “authors’ rights.” This notion is so firmly established that it persists and flourishes even in the face of contrary experience. Experience tells us that our creative practices are largely derivative, generally collective, and increasingly corporate and collaborative. Yet we nevertheless tend to think of genuine authorship as solitary and originary. This individualistic construction of authorship is a relatively recent invention, the result of a radical reconceptualization of the creative process that culminated less than two centuries ago in the heroic self-presentation of Romantic poets. In the view of poets from Herder and Goethe to Wordsworth and Coleridge genuine authorship is originary in the sense that it results not in a variation, an imitation, or an adaptation, and certainly not in a mere reproduction, but in a new, unique — in a word, “original” — work which, accordingly, may be said to be the property of its creator and to merit the law’s protection as such. See Martha Woodmansee, “The Genius and the Copyright: Economic and Legal Conditions of the Emergence of the ‘Author’”; reprinted in Woodmansee, The Author, Art, and the Market, 35-55.

The post I referred to yesterday by Rene Kita noted the tension between the collaborative nature of creation and the Romantic notion of authorship in connection with the Blues: “[Y]ou may ‘create’ a new instance of The Blues by shuffling the notes and words around by a set amount. Shuffle too little and you’re in trouble with the law. Shuffle too much and the purists start screaming rape.”

My former colleague Olufunmilayo B. Arewa makes the point in much greater depth in “Seeing but not Hearing Music: How Copyright Got and Didn’t Get the Blues,” a working paper she recently presented at the recent Conference on the 100th Anniversary of the 1909 Copyright Act. Arewa focuses on Robert Johnson, the musician who remained largely obscure until decades after his death he became known as the greatest and quintessential Blues musician. In Arewa’s view, Johnson is an archetypical example of the way the Romantic view of authorship promotes individual genius over cultural context:

Commentators have so elevated Johnson by using classic language associated with Romantic author discourse that emphasizes the unique genius of Johnson’s compositions. Romantic author discourse has generally played an important role in defining who constitutes an “author” for copyright purposes in part by emphasizing the unique and genius-likecontributions of individual creators. Romantic author assumptions are a primary mechanism by which borrowing and collaboration in creation are minimized or even denied. This vision of authorship has significantimplications for the application of copyright to blues music. The collaborative nature of blues musical composition does not lend itself very well to Romantic author characterizations. In blues practice, the combination of individual performers crafting material from a collaborative tradition is a difficult one from the perspective of current assumptions about creation in copyright. Later romanticization of his musical creations aside, Robert Johnson falls firmly within a blues tradition characterized at least in part by repetition and reuse of existing music and lyrics as a core aesthetic. [Charles Ford, "Robert Johnson's Rhythms", 17 Popular Music 71, 88 n. 57 note 57, at 88 (noting that Johnson borrowed and pasted-in materials much like his predecessors and shaped his pieces into unique and autonomous forms)].The divergence between Robert Johnson’s actual musical practice and later characterizations of both the nature and musical practices underlying his “musical genius” is thus significant. (footnotes omitted)

Why, then, did Robert Johnson, who in Arewa’s view was likely of a piece with an entire genre to African American audiences in the 1920s and 1930s, become known as a genius among musicians comparable to the way Shakespeare is viewed among writers? Because a bunch of white British musicians in the 1960s listened to his recordings and heard something they genuinely had never heard before. In other words, as Arewa explains, perceiving originality in the Romantic sense is more a matter of being ignorant of sources and influences than it is of genuinely discovering independent genius:

Conceptions of Robert Johnson’s work highlight the context dependent nature of notions of originality. Originality is yet another characteristic of copyrightability that is not always easy to delineate in actual contexts of creation. However, what might seem original to those in one context may not seem as original in other contexts. Consequently, within the context of African American audiences of the 1920s and 1930s, Johnson’s work probably did not seem startlingly original in the way that it did to British and other musicians and audiences listening to Johnson’s music, often in relative isolation, in the 1950s and 1960s. This later audience was largely removed from the original context of other music that was prevalent at the time Johnson produced his music or able to listen to a limited and likely biased sample of such music. For early African American blues listeners, what seemed original and
interesting was very different that what seemed interesting and original to the largely white blues fans that were the major force behind the blues revival in the 1950s and 1960s. For the latter, romantic conceptions about the blues were closely tied to notions of authenticity that are often unsuited to musical creation in living musical traditions. As a result, what is perceived as original may depend in significant part on the contexts within which listeners hear music. (footnotes omitted)

Don’t believe it? Here’s a song by Charlie Patton (1891-1934) and one by Robert Johnson:

The Great Emancipator, 200-year-old mashup artist

Reflecting on Abraham Lincoln’s 200th birthday, I’ve made the startling discovery that he was not only an inventor but that he espoused ideas that constitute one of this blog’s principal themes — that innovation and progress require the technical capacity and the legal freedom to exploit existing knowledge.

I hadn’t learned in school or in the many books I’ve read about him since that Lincoln  is the only President to have applied for and received a patent. It was for a device to lift boats over shoals. In fact, throughout his life Lincoln was fascinated by mechanical devices. William H. Herndon, his law partner, wrote that Lincoln “evinced a decided bent toward machinery or mechanical appliances, a trait he doubtless inherited from his father who was himself something of a mechanic and therefore skilled in the use of tools.”

On February 11, 1859 (on the eve of his 50th birthday and precisely 150 years prior to the moment at which  I am writing this post), Lincoln delivered a lecture on “Discoveries and Inventions” in Jacksonville, Illinois. Published as the “Second Lecture on Discoveries and Inventions,” Lincoln described the U.S. as the embodiment of a youthful vitality that caused some to think it “conceited and arrogant” but also made it “the inventor and owner of the present, and sole hope of the future.”

Lincoln attributed this extraordinary national role to America’s capacity for innovation:

The great difference between Young America and Old Fogy, is the result of Discoveries, Inventions, and Improvements.

But Lincoln didn’t consider America’s talent for innovation to be the product of some unprecedented national genius. Instead, its inventiveness resulted from the recognition that innovation requires using and building on earlier innovation. Thus, speaking of the invention of the steam engine, Lincoln made clear that his comparison of “Young America” to “Old Fogies” was ironic:

[W]as this first inventor of the application of steam, wiser or more ingenious than those who had gone before him? Not at all. Had he not learned much of them, he never would have succeeded—probably, never would have thought of making the attempt. To be fruitful in invention, it is indispensable to have a habit of observation and reflection; and this habit, our steam friend acquired, no doubt, from those who, to him, were old fogies.

Furthermore, while humans instinctively exchange knowledge, the progression from speech to writing to printing was indispensable to “facilitating all other inventions and discoveries”:

When man was possessed of speech alone, the chances of invention, discovery, and improvement, were very limited; but by the introduction of each of these, they were greatly multiplied. When writing was invented, any important observation, likely to lead to a discovery, had at least a chance of being written down, and consequently, a better chance of never being forgotten; and of being seen, and reflected upon, by a much greater number of persons; and thereby the chances of a valuable hint being caught, proportionally augmented. By this means the observation of a single individual might lead to an important invention, years, and even centuries after he was dead. In one word, by means of writing, the seeds of invention were more permanently preserved, and more widely sown. And yet, for the three thousand years during which printing remained undiscovered after writing was in use, it was only a small portion of the people who could write, or read writing; and consequently the field of invention, though much extended, still continued very limited. At length printing came. It gave ten thousand copies of any written matter, quite as cheaply as ten were given before; and consequently a thousand minds were brought into the field where there was but one before. This was a great gain; and history shows a great change corresponding to it, in point of time. I will venture to consider it, the true termination of that period called ”the dark ages.” Discoveries, inventions, and improvements followed rapidly, and have been increasing their rapidity ever since.

It is easy to imagine, then, that Lincoln would revel in the capacity of today’s technology to copy and disseminate information world-wide in mere moments. Without the technological capacity to pass knowledge across time and space, “[i]t is very probable—almost certain—that the great mass of men . . . were utterly unconscious, that their conditions, or their minds were incapable of improvement. They not only looked upon the educated few as superior beings; but they supposed themselves to be naturally incapable.”

But it was knowledge, not intelligence, they lacked.  Lincoln knew innovation is not the product of individual genius towering above the mass of humanity.  It is a collaborative enterprise that grows from one person’s creative use of someone else’s invention, which itself appropriated another’s discovery that was inspired by something written across the world in an earlier century.  To think it could be otherwise is to enslave humanity not on a plantation but in ignorance:

To emancipate the mind from this false and under estimate of itself, is the great task which printing came into the world to perform. It is difficult for us, now and here, to conceive how strong this slavery of the mind was; and how long it did, of necessity, take, to break its shackles, and to get a habit of freedom of thought, established.

It is even more difficult for us, for whom the printing press seems the equivalent of cuneiform.  But if we are to overcome the challenges we face, we must embrace the full potential of the technology that makes it so easy to improvise on the creations of others.  It is improvisation and reworking and remixing that leads to innovation and progress.

Who knew that Remix Culture is merely an appropriation of Abraham Lincoln’s thinking, that the Great Emancipator believed that for humans to be truly free  knowledge must be free too?

This morning I didn’t think about the fact I wasn’t being original.

I didn’t realize when I wrote this morning’s post that Ann Bartow at Sivacracy.net had over a month ago quoted musician Jeffrey Lewis’s piece in the New York Times making essentially the same points:

We are all cultural magpies.

I’ve written before that many consider all creative endeavors collaborative. This collaborative quality obviously has significance in an environment in which, for example, the RIAA states that “generally speaking, the use of any part of a song requires a license.” (emphasis added). Although until now the courts have indeed found that a sample of any part of a song does require a license, a more nuanced approach is, I think, inevitable. That inevitability is not just because groups like Girl Talk and Negativeland are creating works that sound genuinely “original” by weaving together pieces of other recordings. It is also because there is a growing recognition that some of the people we consider our greatest originals are cultural magpies.  And pop music, the “property” the record industry protects most fiercely, is likely the most unoriginal original art there is. As the KLF put it in The Manual (How to have a Number One the Easy Way):

Every Number One song ever written is only made up from bits from other songs. There is no lost chord. No changes untried. No extra notes to the scale or hidden beats to the bar. There is no point in searching for originality. In the past, most writers of songs spent months in their lonely rooms strumming their guitars or bands in rehearsals have ground their way through endless riffs before arriving at the song that takes them to the very top. Of course, most of them would be mortally upset to be told that all they were doing was leaving it to chance before they stumbled across the tried and tested.

You don’t believe them? Check out Kid Rock (and don’t get me wrong — I like the song, but no small part of my liking it is knowing the songs it’s derived from):

And just to make your head spin, read this.

Ruling Imagination: Law and Creativity/Is creativity individual or collective?

The question of authorship on scientific papers is an important question. For centuries, every paper was a single-author paper. Moreover, each was thousands of pages long and leather-bound. But now, when science has become such a collaborative enterprise and single-author papers are becoming a rarity, when a 12-author paper turns no heads and 100-author papers are showing up more and more, it has become necessary to put some order in the question of authorship.

An “author” in the modern sense is the creator of unique literary, or artistic, “works” the originality of which warrants their protection under laws of intellectual property — Anglo American “copyright” and European “authors’ rights.” This notion is so firmly established that it persists and flourishes even in the face of contrary experience. Experience tells us that our creative practices are largely derivative, generally collective, and increasingly corporate and collaborative. Yet we nevertheless tend to think of genuine authorship as solitary and originary.

[In contrast, the] individualistic construction of authorship is a relatively recent invention, the result of a radical reconceptualization of the creative process that culminated less than two centuries ago in the heroic self-presentation of Romantic poets. In the view of poets from Herder and Goethe to Wordsworth and Coleridge genuine authorship is originary in the sense that it results not in a variation, an imitation, or an adaptation, and certainly not in a mere reproduction, but in a new, unique — in a word, “original” — work which, accordingly, may be said to be the property of its creator and to merit the law’s protection as such. See Martha Woodmansee, “The Genius and the Copyright: Economic and Legal Conditions of the Emergence of the ‘Author‘”.