Would Shakespeare have survived the Internet? Scott Turow and the morality of propertizing creativity.

In the New York Times, Scott Turow, Paul Aiken, and James Shapiro ask whether Shakespeare would have survived the Internet:

The rise of the Internet has led to a view among many users and Web companies that copyright is a relic, suited only to the needs of out-of-step corporate behemoths. Just consider the dedicated “file-sharers” — actually, traffickers in stolen music movies and, increasingly, books — who transmit and receive copyrighted material without the slightest guilt.

They are abetted by a handful of law professors and other experts who have made careers of fashioning counterintuitive arguments holding that copyright impedes creativity and progress. Their theory is that if we severely weaken copyright protections, innovation will truly flourish. It’s a seductive thought, but it ignores centuries of scientific and technological progress based on the principle that a creative person should have some assurance of being rewarded for his innovative work.

There are a number of questions one might raise in response to Mr. Turow and his colleagues. For one, there are not many law professors other than the notoriously ineffective Charles Nesson who defend the legality of unauthorized file sharing. (To question the assumption that file sharing has a material impact on the music and publishing industries is, on the other hand, a different matter.) To conflate file sharing with tranformative appropriation in discussing copyright is the genuinely misleading rhetorical move. And Shakespeare may not be the best example to use in arguing that copyright and innovation necessarily go together. One might wonder, in fact, whether there really is such a thing as a sui generis artist, be that artist Shakespeare or Robert Johnson. Nor could one argue that there were no great artists and writers prior to the advent of what the Turow and his colleagues describe as “paywalls” around theaters or before copyright. Indeed, at least in certain markets the absence of copyright protection does indeed promote innovation. The very premise of Turow’s argument — that in the absence of the economic monopoly conferred by copyright creativity like Shakespeare’s simply won’t happen — is hardly indisputable.

Perhaps Judge Alex Kozinski, referencing Scott Turow of all people, put it best in dissenting from the 9th Circuit’s refusal to rehear en banc a case in which Vanna White successfully sued Samsung for violating her “right of publicity” by “appropriating” her “identity,” emphasizing that overprotecting intellectual property is as dangerous as underprotecting it (footnotes omitted):

Saddam Hussein wants to keep advertisers from using his picture in unflattering contexts. Clint Eastwood doesn’t want tabloids to write about him. Rudolf Valentino’s heirs want to control his film biography. The Girl Scouts don’t want their image soiled by association with certain activities. George Lucas wants to keep Strategic Defense Initiative fans from calling it “Star Wars.” Pepsico doesn’t want singers to use the word “Pepsi” in their songs. Guy Lombardo wants an exclusive property right to ads that show big bands playing on New Year’s Eve. Uri Geller thinks he should be paid for ads showing psychics bending metal through telekinesis. Paul Prudhomme, that household name, thinks the same about ads featuring corpulent bearded chefs. And scads of copyright holders see purple when their creations are made fun of.

Something very dangerous is going on here. Private property, including intellectual property, is essential to our way of life. It provides an incentive for investment and innovation; it stimulates the flourishing of our culture; it protects the moral entitlements of people to the fruits of their labors. But reducing too much to private property can be bad medicine. Private land, for instance, is far more useful if separated from other private land by public streets, roads and highways. Public parks, utility rights-of-way and sewers reduce the amount of land in private hands, but vastly enhance the value of the property that remains.

So too it is with intellectual property. Overprotecting intellectual property is as harmful as underprotecting it. Creativity is impossible without a rich public domain. Nothing today, likely nothing since we tamed fire, is genuinely new: Culture, like science and technology, grows by accretion, each new creator building on the works of those who came before. Overprotection stifles the very creative forces it’s supposed to nurture. . . .

But what does “evisceration” mean in intellectual property law? Intellectual property rights aren’t like some constitutional rights, absolute guarantees protected against all kinds of interference, subtle as well as blatant. They cast no penumbras, emit no emanations: The very point of intellectual property laws is that they protect only against certain specific kinds of appropriation. I can’t publish unauthorized copies of, say, Presumed Innocent; I can’t make a movie out of it. But I’m perfectly free to write a book about an idealistic young prosecutor on trial for a crime he didn’t commit. So what if I got the idea from Presumed Innocent? So what if it reminds readers of the original? Have I “eviscerated” Scott Turow’s intellectual property rights? Certainly not. All creators draw in part on the work of those who came before, referring to it, building on it, poking fun at it; we call this creativity, not piracy.

Turow and his colleagues are guilty, I think, of the “bad medicine” of “reducing too much to private property.” Perhaps Turow would describe me as a law professor advancing “counterintuitive” arguments, but he runs the risk of embodying (and profiting mightily from) a culture that has an unprecedented tendency to “propertize” everything it can and a blindness to the ways law cannot stem new practices made possible by technology. The inarguable truth is that the music and publishing industries once had virtual monopolies on the production and distribution of their products and that they no longer do. Those industries have largely reacted by trying to enforce a legal regime that grew up with and required the old means of production and distribution, which seems to me at least not the most productive way of promoting creativity.

Turow appears to be among the reactionaries trying to use the force of law to overcome reality. Last year he complained that publishers had made a mistake in making publishing e-book versions of writers’ works at the same time they published the book versions, agreeing with a publisher’s assertion that “there’s something radically wrong” when a market has the power to cause the value of a book to plummet.  When the publisher expanded on the point by stating that “I want to be able to say that a new book by Scott Turow is worth $28, and people should be willing to pay that,” Turow agreed, justifying his entitlement to the price by arguing that “[t]here is nothing wrong with [copyright holders] maximizing their profits . . . . If we really want to have a robust literary culture, then we have to think about the compensation system.”

I would suggest to the publisher and Turow that there might not be anything wrong with maximizing profits but that there might indeed be something wrong with charging a price that reflects the costs of printing and distributing books when the market now can deliver a product that need not be printed and that can be delivered virtually for free.

What is “intuitive” to Turow and the point of view he represents is that your creations are as much your property as your car or your computer. But “intellectual property” is not property in the same way as personal or real property. The very source of our nation’s copyright laws, the Constitution’s Copyright Clause,  makes clear that copyright law exists to promote invention and creativity, and to the extent it discourages invention and creativity it is unconstitutional. Nonetheless, Turow and many others cannot seem to overcome some “moral” conviction that to allow others to profit off of your creations is somehow to “steal” something from you. Again, Judge Kozinski in the Vanna White case quoted above, eloquently states the response to this “moral claim” (footnotes omitted; hyperlinks added):

Moreover, consider the moral dimension, about which the panel majority seems to have gotten so exercised. Saying Samsung “appropriated” something of White’s begs the question: Should White have the exclusive right to something as broad and amorphous as her “identity”? Samsung’s ad didn’t simply copy White’s schtick–like all parody, it created something new. True, Samsung did it to make money, but White does whatever she does to make money, too; the majority talks of “the difference between fun and profit,” 971 F.2d at 1401, but in the entertainment industry fun is profit. Why is Vanna White’s right to exclusive for-profit use of her persona–a persona that might not even be her own creation, but that of a writer, director or producer–superior to Samsung’s right to profit by creating its own inventions? Why should she have such absolute rights to control the conduct of others, unlimited by the idea-expression dichotomy or by the fair use doctrine?

To paraphrase only slightly Feist Publications, Inc. v. Rural Telephone Service Co., 499 U.S340], __, 111 S.Ct. 1282, 1289-90, 113 L.Ed.2d 358 (1991), it may seem unfair that much of the fruit of a creator’s labor may be used by others without compensation. But this is not some unforeseen byproduct of our intellectual property system; it is the system’s very essence. Intellectual property law assures authors the right to their original expression, but encourages others to build freely on the ideas that underlie it. This result is neither unfair nor unfortunate: It is the means by which intellectual property law advances the progress of science and art. We give authors certain exclusive rights, but in exchange we get a richer public domain. The majority ignores this wise teaching, and all of us are the poorer for it

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: