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ALSO BY LAWRENCE LESSIG
The Future of Ideas: The Fate of the Commons
in a Connected World
Code: And Other Laws of Cyberspace
| FREE CULTURE |
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HOW BIG MEDIA USES TECHNOLOGY AND THE LAW TO LOCK DOWN CULTURE AND CONTROL CREATIVITY |
| LAWRENCE LESSIG |
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To Eric Eldred—whose work first drew me
to this cause, and for whom
it continues still.
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At the end of his review of my first book, Code: And
Other Laws of Cyberspace, David Pogue, a brilliant writer and
author of countless technical and computer-related texts, wrote
this:
Unlike actual law, Internet software has no capacity to punish. It doesn’t affect people who aren’t online (and only a tiny minority of the world population is). And if you don’t like the Internet’s system, you can always flip off the modem.1
Pogue was skeptical of the core argument of the book—that software, or “code,” functioned as a kind of law—and his review suggested the happy thought that if life in cyberspace got bad, we could always “drizzle, drazzle, druzzle, drome”-like simply flip a switch and be back home. Turn off the modem, unplug the computer, and any troubles that exist in that space wouldn’t “affect” us anymore.
Pogue might have been right in 1999—I’m skeptical, but maybe. But even if he was right then, the point is not right now: Free Culture is about the troubles the Internet causes even after the modem is turned off. xiv It is an argument about how the battles that now rage regarding life on-line have fundamentally affected “people who aren’t online.” There is no switch that will insulate us from the Internet’s effect.
But unlike Code, the argument here is not much about the Internet itself. It is instead about the consequence of the Internet to a part of our tradition that is much more fundamental, and, as hard as this is for a geek-wanna-be to admit, much more important.
That tradition is the way our culture gets made. As I explain in the pages that follow, we come from a tradition of “free culture”—not “free” as in “free beer” (to borrow a phrase from the founder of the free-software movement2), but “free” as in “free speech,” “free markets,” “free trade,” “free enterprise,” “free will,” and “free elections.” A free culture supports and protects creators and innovators. It does this directly by granting intellectual property rights. But it does so indirectly by limiting the reach of those rights, to guarantee that follow-on creators and innovators remain as free as possible from the control of the past. A free culture is not a culture without property, just as a free market is not a market in which everything is free. The opposite of a free culture is a “permission culture”—a culture in which creators get to create only with the permission of the powerful, or of creators from the past.
If we understood this change, I believe we would resist it. Not “we” on the Left or “you” on the Right, but we who have no stake in the particular industries of culture that defined the twentieth century. Whether you are on the Left or the Right, if you are in this sense disinterested, then the story I tell here will trouble you. For the changes I describe affect values that both sides of our political culture deem fundamental.
We saw a glimpse of this bipartisan outrage in the early summer of 2003. As the FCC considered changes in media ownership rules that would relax limits on media concentration, an extraordinary coalition generated more than 700,000 letters to the FCC opposing the change. As William Safire described marching “uncomfortably alongside CodePink Women for Peace and the National Rifle Association, between xv liberal Olympia Snowe and conservative Ted Stevens,” he formulated perhaps most simply just what was at stake: the concentration of power. And as he asked,
Does that sound unconservative? Not to me. The concentration of power—political, corporate, media, cultural—should be anathema to conservatives. The diffusion of power through local control, thereby encouraging individual participation, is the essence of federalism and the greatest expression of democracy.3
This idea is an element of the argument of Free Culture, though my focus is not just on the concentration of power produced by concentrations in ownership, but more importantly, if because less visibly, on the concentration of power produced by a radical change in the effective scope of the law. The law is changing; that change is altering the way our culture gets made; that change should worry you—whether or not you care about the Internet, and whether you’re on Safire’s left or on his right.
The inspiration for the title and for much of the
argument of this book comes from the work of Richard Stallman and
the Free Software Foundation. Indeed, as I reread Stallman’s own
work, especially the essays in Free Software, Free
Society, I realize that all of the theoretical insights I
develop here are insights Stallman described decades ago. One
could thus well argue that this work is “merely”
derivative.
I accept that criticism, if indeed it is a criticism. The work of a lawyer is always derivative, and I mean to do nothing more in this book than to remind a culture about a tradition that has always been its own. Like Stallman, I defend that tradition on the basis of values. Like Stallman, I believe those are the values of freedom. And like Stallman, I believe those are values of our past that will need to be defended in our future. A free culture has been our past, but it will only be our future if we change the path we are on right now.
Like xvi Stallman’s arguments for free software, an argument for free culture stumbles on a confusion that is hard to avoid, and even harder to understand. A free culture is not a culture without property; it is not a culture in which artists don’t get paid. A culture without property, or in which creators can’t get paid, is anarchy, not freedom. Anarchy is not what I advance here.
Instead, the free culture that I defend in this book is a
balance between anarchy and control. A free culture, like a free
market, is filled with property. It is filled with rules of
property and contract that get enforced by the state. But just as
a free market is perverted if its property becomes feudal, so too
can a free culture be queered by extremism in the property rights
that define it. That is what I fear about our culture today. It
is against that extremism that this book is written.
On December 17, 1903, on a windy North Carolina beach
for just shy of one hundred seconds, the Wright brothers
demonstrated that a heavier-than-air, self-propelled vehicle
could fly. The moment was electric and its importance widely
understood. Almost immediately, there was an explosion of
interest in this newfound technology of manned flight, and a
gaggle of innovators began to build upon it.
At the time the Wright brothers invented the airplane, American law held that a property owner presumptively owned not just the surface of his land, but all the land below, down to the center of the earth, and all the space above, to “an indefinite extent, upwards.”1 For many years, scholars had puzzled about how best to interpret the idea that rights in land ran to the heavens. Did that mean that you owned the stars? Could you prosecute geese for their willful and regular trespass?
Then came airplanes, and for the first time, this principle of American law—deep within the foundations of our tradition, and acknowledged by the most important legal thinkers of our past—mattered. If my land reaches to the heavens, what happens when United flies over my field? Do I have the right to banish it from my property? Am I allowed 2 to enter into an exclusive license with Delta Airlines? Could we set up an auction to decide how much these rights are worth?
In 1945, these questions became a federal case. When North Carolina farmers Thomas Lee and Tinie Causby started losing chickens because of low-flying military aircraft (the terrified chickens apparently flew into the barn walls and died), the Causbys filed a lawsuit saying that the government was trespassing on their land. The airplanes, of course, never touched the surface of the Causbys’ land. But if, as Blackstone, Kent, and Coke had said, their land reached to “an indefinite extent, upwards,” then the government was trespassing on their property, and the Causbys wanted it to stop.
The Supreme Court agreed to hear the Causbys’ case. Congress had declared the airways public, but if one’s property really extended to the heavens, then Congress’s declaration could well have been an unconstitutional “taking” of property without compensation. The Court acknowledged that “it is ancient doctrine that common law ownership of the land extended to the periphery of the universe.” But Justice Douglas had no patience for ancient doctrine. In a single paragraph, hundreds of years of property law were erased. As he wrote for the Court,
[The] doctrine has no place in the modern world. The air is a public highway, as Congress has declared. Were that not true, every transcontinental flight would subject the operator to countless trespass suits. Common sense revolts at the idea. To recognize such private claims to the airspace would clog these highways, seriously interfere with their control and development in the public interest, and transfer into private ownership that to which only the public has a just claim.2
“Common sense revolts at the idea.”
This is how the law usually works. Not often this abruptly or impatiently, but eventually, this is how it works. It was Douglas’s style not to dither. Other justices would have blathered on for pages to reach the conclusion 3 that Douglas holds in a single line: “Common sense revolts at the idea.” But whether it takes pages or a few words, it is the special genius of a common law system, as ours is, that the law adjusts to the technologies of the time. And as it adjusts, it changes. Ideas that were as solid as rock in one age crumble in another.
Or at least, this is how things happen when there’s no one powerful on the other side of the change. The Causbys were just farmers. And though there were no doubt many like them who were upset by the growing traffic in the air (though one hopes not many chickens flew themselves into walls), the Causbys of the world would find it very hard to unite and stop the idea, and the technology, that the Wright brothers had birthed. The Wright brothers spat airplanes into the technological meme pool; the idea then spread like a virus in a chicken coop; farmers like the Causbys found themselves surrounded by “what seemed reasonable” given the technology that the Wrights had produced. They could stand on their farms, dead chickens in hand, and shake their fists at these newfangled technologies all they wanted. They could call their representatives or even file a lawsuit. But in the end, the force of what seems “obvious” to everyone else—the power of “common sense”—would prevail. Their “private interest” would not be allowed to defeat an obvious public gain.
Edwin Howard Armstrong is one of America’s forgotten
inventor geniuses. He came to the great American inventor scene
just after the titans Thomas Edison and Alexander Graham Bell.
But his work in the area of radio technology was perhaps the most
important of any single inventor in the first fifty years of radio. He
was better educated than Michael Faraday, who as a bookbinder’s
apprentice had discovered electric induction in 1831. But he had
the same intuition about how the world of radio worked, and on at
least three occasions, Armstrong invented profoundly important
technologies that advanced our understanding of radio.
On 4 the day after Christmas, 1933, four patents were issued to Armstrong for his most significant invention—FM radio. Until then, consumer radio had been amplitude-modulated (AM) radio. The theorists of the day had said that frequency-modulated (FM) radio could never work. They were right about FM radio in a narrow band of spectrum. But Armstrong discovered that frequency-modulated radio in a wide band of spectrum would deliver an astonishing fidelity of sound, with much less transmitter power and static.
On November 5, 1935, he demonstrated the technology at a meeting of the Institute of Radio Engineers at the Empire State Building in New York City. He tuned his radio dial across a range of AM stations, until the radio locked on a broadcast that he had arranged from seventeen miles away. The radio fell totally silent, as if dead, and then with a clarity no one else in that room had ever heard from an electrical device, it produced the sound of an announcer’s voice: “This is amateur station W2AG at Yonkers, New York, operating on frequency modulation at two and a half meters.”
The audience was hearing something no one had thought possible:
A glass of water was poured before the microphone in Yonkers; it sounded like a glass of water being poured. . . . A paper was crumpled and torn; it sounded like paper and not like a crackling forest fire. . . . Sousa marches were played from records and a piano solo and guitar number were performed. . . . The music was projected with a live-ness rarely if ever heard before from a radio “music box.”3
As our own common sense tells us, Armstrong had discovered a vastly superior radio technology. But at the time of his invention, Armstrong was working for RCA. RCA was the dominant player in the then dominant AM radio market. By 1935, there were a thousand radio stations across the United States, but the stations in large cities were all owned by a handful of networks.
RCA’s 5 president, David Sarnoff, a friend of Armstrong’s, was eager that Armstrong discover a way to remove static from AM radio. So Sarnoff was quite excited when Armstrong told him he had a device that removed static from “radio.” But when Armstrong demonstrated his invention, Sarnoff was not pleased.
I thought Armstrong would invent some kind of a filter to remove static from our AM radio. I didn’t think he’d start a revolution—start up a whole damn new industry to compete with RCA.4
Armstrong’s invention threatened RCA’s AM empire, so the company launched a campaign to smother FM radio. While FM may have been a superior technology, Sarnoff was a superior tactician. As one author described,
The forces for FM, largely engineering, could not overcome the weight of strategy devised by the sales, patent, and legal offices to subdue this threat to corporate position. For FM, if allowed to develop unrestrained, posed . . . a complete reordering of radio power . . . and the eventual overthrow of the carefully restricted AM system on which RCA had grown to power.5
RCA at first kept the technology in house, insisting that further tests were needed. When, after two years of testing, Armstrong grew impatient, RCA began to use its power with the government to stall FM radio’s deployment generally. In 1936, RCA hired the former head of the FCC and assigned him the task of assuring that the FCC assign spectrum in a way that would castrate FM—principally by moving FM radio to a different band of spectrum. At first, these efforts failed. But when Armstrong and the nation were distracted by World War II, RCA’s work began to be more successful. Soon after the war ended, the FCC announced a set of policies that would have one clear effect: FM radio would be crippled. As Lawrence Lessing described it,
The 6 series of body blows that FM radio received right after the war, in a series of rulings manipulated through the FCC by the big radio interests, were almost incredible in their force and deviousness.6
To make room in the spectrum for RCA’s latest gamble, television, FM radio users were to be moved to a totally new spectrum band. The power of FM radio stations was also cut, meaning FM could no longer be used to beam programs from one part of the country to another. (This change was strongly supported by AT&T, because the loss of FM relaying stations would mean radio stations would have to buy wired links from AT&T.) The spread of FM radio was thus choked, at least temporarily.
Armstrong resisted RCA’s efforts. In response, RCA resisted Armstrong’s patents. After incorporating FM technology into the emerging standard for television, RCA declared the patents invalid—baselessly, and almost fifteen years after they were issued. It thus refused to pay him royalties. For six years, Armstrong fought an expensive war of litigation to defend the patents. Finally, just as the patents expired, RCA offered a settlement so low that it would not even cover Armstrong’s lawyers’ fees. Defeated, broken, and now broke, in 1954 Armstrong wrote a short note to his wife and then stepped out of a thirteenth-story window to his death.
This is how the law sometimes works. Not often this tragically, and rarely with heroic drama, but sometimes, this is how it works. From the beginning, government and government agencies have been subject to capture. They are more likely captured when a powerful interest is threatened by either a legal or technical change. That powerful interest too often exerts its influence within the government to get the government to protect it. The rhetoric of this protection is of course always public spirited; the reality is something different. Ideas that were as solid as rock in one age, but that, left to themselves, would crumble in another, 7 are sustained through this subtle corruption of our political process. RCA had what the Causbys did not: the power to stifle the effect of technological change.
There’s no single inventor of the Internet. Nor is there any
good date upon which to mark its birth. Yet in a very short time,
the Internet has become part of ordinary American life. According
to the Pew Internet and American Life Project, 58 percent of
Americans had access to the Internet in 2002, up from 49 percent
two years before.7 That number could well exceed two
thirds of the nation by the end of 2004.
As the Internet has been integrated into ordinary life, it has changed things. Some of these changes are technical—the Internet has made communication faster, it has lowered the cost of gathering data, and so on. These technical changes are not the focus of this book. They are important. They are not well understood. But they are the sort of thing that would simply go away if we all just switched the Internet off. They don’t affect people who don’t use the Internet, or at least they don’t affect them directly. They are the proper subject of a book about the Internet. But this is not a book about the Internet.
Instead, this book is about an effect of the Internet beyond the Internet itself: an effect upon how culture is made. My claim is that the Internet has induced an important and unrecognized change in that process. That change will radically transform a tradition that is as old as the Republic itself. Most, if they recognized this change, would reject it. Yet most don’t even see the change that the Internet has introduced.
We can glimpse a sense of this change by distinguishing between commercial and noncommercial culture, and by mapping the law’s regulation of each. By “commercial culture” I mean that part of our culture that is produced and sold or produced to be sold. By “noncommercial culture” I mean all the rest. When old men sat around parks or on street 8 corners telling stories that kids and others consumed, that was noncommercial culture. When Noah Webster published his “Reader,” or Joel Barlow his poetry, that was commercial culture.
At the beginning of our history, and for just about the whole of our tradition, noncommercial culture was essentially unregulated. Of course, if your stories were lewd, or if your song disturbed the peace, then the law might intervene. But the law was never directly concerned with the creation or spread of this form of culture, and it left this culture “free.” The ordinary ways in which ordinary individuals shared and transformed their culture—telling stories, reenacting scenes from plays or TV, participating in fan clubs, sharing music, making tapes—were left alone by the law.
The focus of the law was on commercial creativity. At first slightly, then quite extensively, the law protected the incentives of creators by granting them exclusive rights to their creative work, so that they could sell those exclusive rights in a commercial marketplace.8 This is also, of course, an important part of creativity and culture, and it has become an increasingly important part in America. But in no sense was it dominant within our tradition. It was instead just one part, a controlled part, balanced with the free.
This rough divide between the free and the controlled has now been erased.9 The Internet has set the stage for this erasure and, pushed by big media, the law has now affected it. For the first time in our tradition, the ordinary ways in which individuals create and share culture fall within the reach of the regulation of the law, which has expanded to draw within its control a vast amount of culture and creativity that it never reached before. The technology that preserved the balance of our history—between uses of our culture that were free and uses of our culture that were only upon permission—has been undone. The consequence is that we are less and less a free culture, more and more a permission culture.
This change gets justified as necessary to protect commercial creativity. 9 And indeed, protectionism is precisely its motivation. But the protectionism that justifies the changes that I will describe below is not the limited and balanced sort that has defined the law in the past. This is not a protectionism to protect artists. It is instead a protectionism to protect certain forms of business. Corporations threatened by the potential of the Internet to change the way both commercial and noncommercial culture are made and shared have united to induce lawmakers to use the law to protect them. It is the story of RCA and Armstrong; it is the dream of the Causbys.
For the Internet has unleashed an extraordinary possibility for many to participate in the process of building and cultivating a culture that reaches far beyond local boundaries. That power has changed the marketplace for making and cultivating culture generally, and that change in turn threatens established content industries. The Internet is thus to the industries that built and distributed content in the twentieth century what FM radio was to AM radio, or what the truck was to the railroad industry of the nineteenth century: the beginning of the end, or at least a substantial transformation. Digital technologies, tied to the Internet, could produce a vastly more competitive and vibrant market for building and cultivating culture; that market could include a much wider and more diverse range of creators; those creators could produce and distribute a much more vibrant range of creativity; and depending upon a few important factors, those creators could earn more on average from this system than creators do today—all so long as the RCAs of our day don’t use the law to protect themselves against this competition.
Yet, as I argue in the pages that follow, that is precisely what is happening in our culture today. These modern-day equivalents of the early twentieth-century radio or nineteenth-century railroads are using their power to get the law to protect them against this new, more efficient, more vibrant technology for building culture. They are succeeding in their plan to remake the Internet before the Internet remakes them.
It doesn’t seem this way to many. The battles over copyright and the Internet 10 seem remote to most. To the few who follow them, they seem mainly about a much simpler brace of questions—whether “piracy” will be permitted, and whether “property” will be protected. The “war” that has been waged against the technologies of the Internet—what Motion Picture Association of America (MPAA) president Jack Valenti calls his “own terrorist war”10—has been framed as a battle about the rule of law and respect for property. To know which side to take in this war, most think that we need only decide whether we’re for property or against it.
If those really were the choices, then I would be with Jack Valenti and the content industry. I, too, am a believer in property, and especially in the importance of what Mr. Valenti nicely calls “creative property.” I believe that “piracy” is wrong, and that the law, properly tuned, should punish “piracy,” whether on or off the Internet.
But those simple beliefs mask a much more fundamental question and a much more dramatic change. My fear is that unless we come to see this change, the war to rid the world of Internet “pirates” will also rid our culture of values that have been integral to our tradition from the start.
These values built a tradition that, for at least the first 180 years of our Republic, guaranteed creators the right to build freely upon their past, and protected creators and innovators from either state or private control. The First Amendment protected creators against state control. And as Professor Neil Netanel powerfully argues,11 copyright law, properly balanced, protected creators against private control. Our tradition was thus neither Soviet nor the tradition of patrons. It instead carved out a wide berth within which creators could cultivate and extend our culture.
Yet the law’s response to the Internet, when tied to changes in the technology of the Internet itself, has massively increased the effective regulation of creativity in America. To build upon or critique the culture around us one must ask, Oliver Twist-like, for permission first. Permission is, of course, often granted—but it is not often granted to the critical or the independent. We have built a kind of cultural nobility; 11 those within the noble class live easily; those outside it don’t. But it is nobility of any form that is alien to our tradition.
The story that follows is about this war. Is it not about the “centrality of technology” to ordinary life. I don’t believe in gods, digital or otherwise. Nor is it an effort to demonize any individual or group, for neither do I believe in a devil, corporate or otherwise. It is not a morality tale. Nor is it a call to jihad against an industry.
It is instead an effort to understand a hopelessly destructive war inspired by the technologies of the Internet but reaching far beyond its code. And by understanding this battle, it is an effort to map peace. There is no good reason for the current struggle around Internet technologies to continue. There will be great harm to our tradition and culture if it is allowed to continue unchecked. We must come to understand the source of this war. We must resolve it soon.
Like the Causbys’
battle, this war is, in part, about “property.” The
property of this war is not as tangible as the Causbys’, and no
innocent chicken has yet to lose its life. Yet the ideas
surrounding this “property” are as obvious to most as
the Causbys’ claim about the sacredness of their farm was to
them. We are the Causbys. Most of us take for granted the
extraordinarily powerful claims that the owners of
“intellectual property” now assert. Most of us, like
the Causbys, treat these claims as obvious. And hence we, like
the Causbys, object when a new technology interferes with this
property. It is as plain to us as it was to them that the new
technologies of the Internet are “trespassing” upon
legitimate claims of “property.” It is as plain to us
as it was to them that the law should intervene to stop this
trespass.
And thus, when geeks and technologists defend their Armstrong or Wright brothers technology, most of us are simply unsympathetic. Common sense does not revolt. Unlike in the case of the unlucky Causbys, common sense is on the side of the property owners in this war. Unlike the 12 lucky Wright brothers, the Internet has not inspired a revolution on its side.
My hope is to push this common sense along. I have become increasingly amazed by the power of this idea of intellectual property and, more importantly, its power to disable critical thought by policy makers and citizens. There has never been a time in our history when more of our “culture” was as “owned” as it is now. And yet there has never been a time when the concentration of power to control the uses of culture has been as unquestioningly accepted as it is now.
The puzzle is, Why?
Is it because we have come to understand a truth about the value and importance of absolute property over ideas and culture? Is it because we have discovered that our tradition of rejecting such an absolute claim was wrong?
Or is it because the idea of absolute property over ideas and culture benefits the RCAs of our time and fits our own unreflective intuitions?
Is the radical shift away from our tradition of free culture an instance of America correcting a mistake from its past, as we did after a bloody war with slavery, and as we are slowly doing with inequality? Or is the radical shift away from our tradition of free culture yet another example of a political system captured by a few powerful special interests?
Does common sense lead to the extremes on this question because common sense actually believes in these extremes? Or does common sense stand silent in the face of these extremes because, as with Armstrong versus RCA, the more powerful side has ensured that it has the more powerful view?
I don’t mean to be mysterious. My own views are resolved. I
believe it was right for common sense to revolt against the
extremism of the Causbys. I believe it would be right for common
sense to revolt against the extreme claims made today on behalf
of “intellectual property.” What the law demands
today is increasingly as silly as a sheriff arresting an airplane
for trespass. But the consequences of this silliness will be much
more profound.
13
The struggle that rages just now centers on
two ideas: “piracy” and “property.” My
aim in this book’s next two parts is to explore these two
ideas.
My method is not the usual method of an academic. I don’t want to plunge you into a complex argument, buttressed with references to obscure French theorists—however natural that is for the weird sort we academics have become. Instead I begin in each part with a collection of stories that set a context within which these apparently simple ideas can be more fully understood.
The two sections set up the core claim of this book: that while the Internet has indeed produced something fantastic and new, our government, pushed by big media to respond to this “something new,” is destroying something very old. Rather than understanding the changes the Internet might permit, and rather than taking time to let “common sense” resolve how best to respond, we are allowing those most threatened by the changes to use their power to change the law—and more importantly, to use their power to change something fundamental about who we have always been.
We allow this, I believe, not because it is right, and not
because most of us really believe in these changes. We allow it
because the interests most threatened are among the most powerful
players in our depressingly compromised process of making law.
This book is the story of one more consequence of this form of
corruption—a consequence to which most of us remain
oblivious.
Since the inception 17 of the law regulating creative property,
there has been a war against “piracy.” The precise
contours of this concept, “piracy,” are hard to
sketch, but the animating injustice is easy to capture. As Lord
Mansfield wrote in a case that extended the reach of English
copyright law to include sheet music,
A person may use the copy by playing it, but he has no right to rob the author of the profit, by multiplying copies and disposing of them for his own use.1
Today we are in the middle of another “war” against “piracy.” The Internet has provoked this war. The Internet makes possible the efficient spread of content. Peer-to-peer (p2p) file sharing is among the most efficient of the efficient technologies the Internet enables. Using distributed intelligence, p2p systems facilitate the easy spread of content in a way unimagined a generation ago.
This 18 efficiency does not respect the traditional lines of copyright. The network doesn’t discriminate between the sharing of copyrighted and uncopyrighted content. Thus has there been a vast amount of sharing of copyrighted content. That sharing in turn has excited the war, as copyright owners fear the sharing will “rob the author of the profit.”
The warriors have turned to the courts, to the legislatures, and increasingly to technology to defend their “property” against this “piracy.” A generation of Americans, the warriors warn, is being raised to believe that “property” should be “free.” Forget tattoos, never mind body piercing—our kids are becoming thieves!
There’s no doubt that “piracy” is wrong, and that pirates should be punished. But before we summon the executioners, we should put this notion of “piracy” in some context. For as the concept is increasingly used, at its core is an extraordinary idea that is almost certainly wrong.
The idea goes something like this:
Creative work has value; whenever I use, or take, or build upon the creative work of others, I am taking from them something of value. Whenever I take something of value from someone else, I should have their permission. The taking of something of value from someone else without permission is wrong. It is a form of piracy.
This view runs deep within the current debates. It is what NYU law professor Rochelle Dreyfuss criticizes as the “if value, then right” theory of creative property2—if there is value, then someone must have a right to that value. It is the perspective that led a composers’ rights organization, ASCAP, to sue the Girl Scouts for failing to pay for the songs that girls sang around Girl Scout campfires.3 There was “value” (the songs) so there must have been a “right”—even against the Girl Scouts.
This idea is certainly a possible understanding of how creative property should work. It might well be a possible design for a system of 19 law protecting creative property. But the “if value, then right” theory of creative property has never been America’s theory of creative property. It has never taken hold within our law.
Instead, in our tradition, intellectual property is an instrument. It sets the groundwork for a richly creative society but remains subservient to the value of creativity. The current debate has this turned around. We have become so concerned with protecting the instrument that we are losing sight of the value.
The source of this confusion is a distinction that the law no longer takes care to draw—the distinction between republishing someone’s work on the one hand and building upon or transforming that work on the other. Copyright law at its birth had only publishing as its concern; copyright law today regulates both.
Before the technologies of the Internet, this conflation didn’t matter all that much. The technologies of publishing were expensive; that meant the vast majority of publishing was commercial. Commercial entities could bear the burden of the law—even the burden of the Byzantine complexity that copyright law has become. It was just one more expense of doing business.
But with the birth of the Internet, this natural limit to the reach of the law has disappeared. The law controls not just the creativity of commercial creators but effectively that of anyone. Although that expansion would not matter much if copyright law regulated only “copying,” when the law regulates as broadly and obscurely as it does, the extension matters a lot. The burden of this law now vastly outweighs any original benefit—certainly as it affects noncommercial creativity, and increasingly as it affects commercial creativity as well. Thus, as we’ll see more clearly in the chapters below, the law’s role is less and less to support creativity, and more and more to protect certain industries against competition. Just at the time digital technology could unleash an extraordinary range of commercial and noncommercial creativity, the law burdens this creativity with insanely complex and vague rules and with the threat of obscenely severe penalties. We may be 20 seeing, as Richard Florida writes, the “Rise of the Creative Class.”4 Unfortunately, we are also seeing an extraordinary rise of regulation of this creative class.
These burdens make no sense in our tradition. We should begin
by understanding that tradition a bit more and by placing in
their proper context the current battles about behavior labeled
“piracy.”
CHAPTER ONE: Creators
In 1928, a cartoon character was born. An early Mickey
Mouse made his debut in May of that year, in a silent flop called
Plane Crazy. In November, in New York City’s Colony
Theater, in the first widely distributed cartoon synchronized
with sound, Steamboat Willie brought to life the character
that would become Mickey Mouse.
Synchronized sound had been introduced to film a year earlier in the movie The Jazz Singer. That success led Walt Disney to copy the technique and mix sound with cartoons. No one knew whether it would work or, if it did work, whether it would win an audience. But when Disney ran a test in the summer of 1928, the results were unambiguous. As Disney describes that first experiment,
A couple of my boys could read music, and one of them could play a mouth organ. We put them in a room where they could not see the screen and arranged to pipe their sound into the room where our wives and friends were going to see the picture.The 22 boys worked from a music and sound-effects score. After several false starts, sound and action got off with the gun. The mouth organist played the tune, the rest of us in the sound department bammed tin pans and blew slide whistles on the beat. The synchronization was pretty close.
The effect on our little audience was nothing less than electric. They responded almost instinctively to this union of sound and motion. I thought they were kidding me. So they put me in the audience and ran the action again. It was terrible, but it was wonderful! And it was something new!1
Disney’s then partner, and one of animation’s most extraordinary talents, Ub Iwerks, put it more strongly: “I have never been so thrilled in my life. Nothing since has ever equaled it.”
Disney had created something very new, based upon something relatively new. Synchronized sound brought life to a form of creativity that had rarely—except in Disney’s hands—been anything more than filler for other films. Throughout animation’s early history, it was Disney’s invention that set the standard that others struggled to match. And quite often, Disney’s great genius, his spark of creativity, was built upon the work of others.
This much is familiar. What you might not know is that 1928 also marks another important transition. In that year, a comic (as opposed to cartoon) genius created his last independently produced silent film. That genius was Buster Keaton. The film was Steamboat Bill, Jr.
Keaton was born into a vaudeville family in 1895. In the era of silent film, he had mastered using broad physical comedy as a way to spark uncontrollable laughter from his audience. Steamboat Bill, Jr. was a classic of this form, famous among film buffs for its incredible stunts. The film was classic Keaton—wildly popular and among the best of its genre.
Steamboat Bill, Jr. appeared before Disney’s cartoon Steamboat Willie. The coincidence of titles is not coincidental. Steamboat Willie is a direct 23 cartoon parody of Steamboat Bill,2 and both are built upon a common song as a source. It is not just from the invention of synchronized sound in The Jazz Singer that we get Steamboat Willie. It is also from Buster Keaton’s invention of Steamboat Bill, Jr., itself inspired by the song “Steamboat Bill,” that we get Steamboat Willie, and then from Steamboat Willie, Mickey Mouse.
This “borrowing” was nothing unique, either for Disney or for the industry. Disney was always parroting the feature-length mainstream films of his day.3 So did many others. Early cartoons are filled with knockoffs—slight variations on winning themes; retellings of ancient stories. The key to success was the brilliance of the differences. With Disney, it was sound that gave his animation its spark. Later, it was the quality of his work relative to the production-line cartoons with which he competed. Yet these additions were built upon a base that was borrowed. Disney added to the work of others before him, creating something new out of something just barely old.
Sometimes this borrowing was slight. Sometimes it was significant. Think about the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm. If you’re as oblivious as I was, you’re likely to think that these tales are happy, sweet stories, appropriate for any child at bedtime. In fact, the Grimm fairy tales are, well, for us, grim. It is a rare and perhaps overly ambitious parent who would dare to read these bloody, moralistic stories to his or her child, at bedtime or anytime.
Disney took these stories and retold them in a way that carried them into a new age. He animated the stories, with both characters and light. Without removing the elements of fear and danger altogether, he made funny what was dark and injected a genuine emotion of compassion where before there was fear. And not just with the work of the Brothers Grimm. Indeed, the catalog of Disney work drawing upon the work of others is astonishing when set together: Snow White (1937), Fantasia (1940), Pinocchio (1940), Dumbo (1941), Bambi (1942), Song of the South (1946), Cinderella (1950), Alice in Wonderland (1951), Robin Hood (1952), Peter Pan (1953), Lady and the Tramp (1955), 24 Mulan (1998), Sleeping Beauty (1959), 101 Dalmatians (1961), The Sword in the Stone (1963), and The Jungle Book (1967)—not to mention a recent example that we should perhaps quickly forget, Treasure Planet (2003). In all of these cases, Disney (or Disney, Inc.) ripped creativity from the culture around him, mixed that creativity with his own extraordinary talent, and then burned that mix into the soul of his culture. Rip, mix, and burn.
This is a kind of creativity. It is a creativity that we should remember and celebrate. There are some who would say that there is no creativity except this kind. We don’t need to go that far to recognize its importance. We could call this “Disney creativity,” though that would be a bit misleading. It is, more precisely, “Walt Disney creativity”—a form of expression and genius that builds upon the culture around us and makes it something different.
In 1928, the culture that Disney was free to draw upon was relatively fresh. The public domain in 1928 was not very old and was therefore quite vibrant. The average term of copyright was just around thirty years—for that minority of creative work that was in fact copyrighted.4 That means that for thirty years, on average, the authors or copyright holders of a creative work had an “exclusive right” to control certain uses of the work. To use this copyrighted work in limited ways required the permission of the copyright owner.
At the end of a copyright term, a work passes into the public domain. No permission is then needed to draw upon or use that work. No permission and, hence, no lawyers. The public domain is a “lawyer-free zone.” Thus, most of the content from the nineteenth century was free for Disney to use and build upon in 1928. It was free for anyone—whether connected or not, whether rich or not, whether approved or not—to use and build upon.
This is the ways things always were—until quite recently. For most of our history, the public domain was just over the horizon. From 1790 until 1978, the average copyright term was never more than thirty-two years, meaning that most culture just a generation and a half old was free 25 for anyone to build upon without the permission of anyone else. Today’s equivalent would be for creative work from the 1960s and 1970s to now be free for the next Walt Disney to build upon without permission. Yet today, the public domain is presumptive only for content from before the Great Depression.
Of course, Walt Disney had no monopoly on “Walt
Disney creativity.” Nor does America. The norm of free
culture has, until recently, and except within totalitarian
nations, been broadly exploited and quite universal.
Consider, for example, a form of creativity that seems strange to many Americans but that is inescapable within Japanese culture: manga, or comics. The Japanese are fanatics about comics. Some 40 percent of publications are comics, and 30 percent of publication revenue derives from comics. They are everywhere in Japanese society, at every magazine stand, carried by a large proportion of commuters on Japan’s extraordinary system of public transportation.
Americans tend to look down upon this form of culture. That’s an unattractive characteristic of ours. We’re likely to misunderstand much about manga, because few of us have ever read anything close to the stories that these “graphic novels” tell. For the Japanese, manga cover every aspect of social life. For us, comics are “men in tights.” And anyway, it’s not as if the New York subways are filled with readers of Joyce or even Hemingway. People of different cultures distract themselves in different ways, the Japanese in this interestingly different way.
But my purpose here is not to understand manga. It is to describe a variant on manga that from a lawyer’s perspective is quite odd, but from a Disney perspective is quite familiar.
This is the phenomenon of doujinshi. Doujinshi are also comics, but they are a kind of copycat comic. A rich ethic governs the creation of doujinshi. It is not doujinshi if it is just a copy; the artist must make a contribution to the art he copies, by transforming it either subtly or significantly. 26 A doujinshi comic can thus take a mainstream comic and develop it differently—with a different story line. Or the comic can keep the character in character but change its look slightly. There is no formula for what makes the doujinshi sufficiently “different.” But they must be different if they are to be considered true doujinshi. Indeed, there are committees that review doujinshi for inclusion within shows and reject any copycat comic that is merely a copy.
These copycat comics are not a tiny part of the manga market. They are huge. More than 33,000 “circles” of creators from across Japan produce these bits of Walt Disney creativity. More than 450,000 Japanese come together twice a year, in the largest public gathering in the country, to exchange and sell them. This market exists in parallel to the mainstream commercial manga market. In some ways, it obviously competes with that market, but there is no sustained effort by those who control the commercial manga market to shut the doujinshi market down. It flourishes, despite the competition and despite the law.
The most puzzling feature of the doujinshi market, for those trained in the law, at least, is that it is allowed to exist at all. Under Japanese copyright law, which in this respect (on paper) mirrors American copyright law, the doujinshi market is an illegal one. Doujinshi are plainly “derivative works.” There is no general practice by doujinshi artists of securing the permission of the manga creators. Instead, the practice is simply to take and modify the creations of others, as Walt Disney did with Steamboat Bill, Jr. Under both Japanese and American law, that “taking” without the permission of the original copyright owner is illegal. It is an infringement of the original copyright to make a copy or a derivative work without the original copyright owner’s permission.
Yet this illegal market exists and indeed flourishes in Japan, and in the view of many, it is precisely because it exists that Japanese manga flourish. As American graphic novelist Judd Winick said to me, “The early days of comics in America are very much like what’s going on in Japan now. . . . American comics were born out of copying each other. . . . 27 That’s how [the artists] learn to draw—by going into comic books and not tracing them, but looking at them and copying them” and building from them.5
American comics now are quite different, Winick explains, in part because of the legal difficulty of adapting comics the way doujinshi are allowed. Speaking of Superman, Winick told me, “there are these rules and you have to stick to them.” There are things Superman “cannot” do. “As a creator, it’s frustrating having to stick to some parameters which are fifty years old.”
The norm in Japan mitigates this legal difficulty. Some say it is precisely the benefit accruing to the Japanese manga market that explains the mitigation. Temple University law professor Salil Mehra, for example, hypothesizes that the manga market accepts these technical violations because they spur the manga market to be more wealthy and productive. Everyone would be worse off if doujinshi were banned, so the law does not ban doujinshi.6
The problem with this story, however, as Mehra plainly acknowledges, is that the mechanism producing this laissez faire response is not clear. It may well be that the market as a whole is better off if doujinshi are permitted rather than banned, but that doesn’t explain why individual copyright owners don’t sue nonetheless. If the law has no general exception for doujinshi, and indeed in some cases individual manga artists have sued doujinshi artists, why is there not a more general pattern of blocking this “free taking” by the doujinshi culture?
I spent four wonderful months in Japan, and I asked this question as often as I could. Perhaps the best account in the end was offered by a friend from a major Japanese law firm. “We don’t have enough lawyers,” he told me one afternoon. There “just aren’t enough resources to prosecute cases like this.”
This is a theme to which we will return: that regulation by law is a function of both the words on the books and the costs of making those words have effect. For now, focus on the obvious question that is begged: Would Japan be better off with more lawyers? Would manga be 28 richer if doujinshi artists were regularly prosecuted? Would the Japanese gain something important if they could end this practice of uncompensated sharing? Does piracy here hurt the victims of the piracy, or does it help them? Would lawyers fighting this piracy help their clients or hurt them?
Let’s pause for a moment.
If you’re like I was a decade ago, or like most people are when they first start thinking about these issues, then just about now you should be puzzled about something you hadn’t thought through before.
We live in a world that celebrates “property.” I am one of those celebrants. I believe in the value of property in general, and I also believe in the value of that weird form of property that lawyers call “intellectual property.”7 A large, diverse society cannot survive without property; a large, diverse, and modern society cannot flourish without intellectual property.
But it takes just a second’s reflection to realize that there is plenty of value out there that “property” doesn’t capture. I don’t mean “money can’t buy you love,” but rather, value that is plainly part of a process of production, including commercial as well as noncommercial production. If Disney animators had stolen a set of pencils to draw Steamboat Willie, we’d have no hesitation in condemning that taking as wrong—even though trivial, even if unnoticed. Yet there was nothing wrong, at least under the law of the day, with Disney’s taking from Buster Keaton or from the Brothers Grimm. There was nothing wrong with the taking from Keaton because Disney’s use would have been considered “fair.” There was nothing wrong with the taking from the Grimms because the Grimms’ work was in the public domain.
Thus, even though the things that Disney took—or more generally, the things taken by anyone exercising Walt Disney creativity—are valuable, our tradition does not treat those takings as wrong. Some things 29 remain free for the taking within a free culture, and that freedom is good.
The same with the doujinshi culture. If a doujinshi artist broke into a publisher’s office and ran off with a thousand copies of his latest work—or even one copy—without paying, we’d have no hesitation in saying the artist was wrong. In addition to having trespassed, he would have stolen something of value. The law bans that stealing in whatever form, whether large or small.
Yet there is an obvious reluctance, even among Japanese lawyers, to say that the copycat comic artists are “stealing.” This form of Walt Disney creativity is seen as fair and right, even if lawyers in particular find it hard to say why.
It’s the same with a thousand examples that appear everywhere once you begin to look. Scientists build upon the work of other scientists without asking or paying for the privilege. (“Excuse me, Professor Einstein, but may I have permission to use your theory of relativity to show that you were wrong about quantum physics?”) Acting companies perform adaptations of the works of Shakespeare without securing permission from anyone. (Does anyone believe Shakespeare would be better spread within our culture if there were a central Shakespeare rights clearinghouse that all productions of Shakespeare must appeal to first?) And Hollywood goes through cycles with a certain kind of movie: five asteroid films in the late 1990s; two volcano disaster films in 1997.
Creators here and everywhere are always and at all times building upon the creativity that went before and that surrounds them now. That building is always and everywhere at least partially done without permission and without compensating the original creator. No society, free or controlled, has ever demanded that every use be paid for or that permission for Walt Disney creativity must always be sought. Instead, every society has left a certain bit of its culture free for the taking—free societies more fully than unfree, perhaps, but all societies to some degree.
The 30 hard question is therefore not whether a culture is free. All cultures are free to some degree. The hard question instead is “How free is this culture?” How much, and how broadly, is the culture free for others to take and build upon? Is that freedom limited to party members? To members of the royal family? To the top ten corporations on the New York Stock Exchange? Or is that freedom spread broadly? To artists generally, whether affiliated with the Met or not? To musicians generally, whether white or not? To filmmakers generally, whether affiliated with a studio or not?
Free cultures are cultures that leave a great deal open for
others to build upon; unfree, or permission, cultures leave much
less. Ours was a free culture. It is becoming much less so.
CHAPTER TWO: “Mere Copyists”
In 1839, Louis Daguerre invented the first practical
technology for producing what we would call
“photographs.” Appropriately enough, they were called
“daguerreotypes.” The process was complicated and
expensive, and the field was thus limited to professionals and a
few zealous and wealthy amateurs. (There was even an American
Daguerre Association that helped regulate the industry, as do all
such associations, by keeping competition down so as to keep
prices up.)
Yet despite high prices, the demand for daguerreotypes was strong. This pushed inventors to find simpler and cheaper ways to make “automatic pictures.” William Talbot soon discovered a process for making “negatives.” But because the negatives were glass, and had to be kept wet, the process still remained expensive and cumbersome. In the 1870s, dry plates were developed, making it easier to separate the taking of a picture from its developing. These were still plates of glass, and thus it was still not a process within reach of most amateurs.
The technological change that made mass photography possible didn’t happen until 1888, and was the creation of a single man. George Eastman, 32 himself an amateur photographer, was frustrated by the technology of photographs made with plates. In a flash of insight (so to speak), Eastman saw that if the film could be made to be flexible, it could be held on a single spindle. That roll could then be sent to a developer, driving the costs of photography down substantially. By lowering the costs, Eastman expected he could dramatically broaden the population of photographers.
Eastman developed flexible, emulsion-coated paper film and placed rolls of it in small, simple cameras: the Kodak. The device was marketed on the basis of its simplicity. “You press the button and we do the rest.”1 As he described in The Kodak Primer:
The principle of the Kodak system is the separation of the work that any person whomsoever can do in making a photograph, from the work that only an expert can do. . . . We furnish anybody, man, woman or child, who has sufficient intelligence to point a box straight and press a button, with an instrument which altogether removes from the practice of photography the necessity for exceptional facilities or, in fact, any special knowledge of the art. It can be employed without preliminary study, without a darkroom and without chemicals.2
For $25, anyone could make pictures. The camera came preloaded with film, and when it had been used, the camera was returned to an Eastman factory, where the film was developed. Over time, of course, the cost of the camera and the ease with which it could be used both improved. Roll film thus became the basis for the explosive growth of popular photography. Eastman’s camera first went on sale in 1888; one year later, Kodak was printing more than six thousand negatives a day. From 1888 through 1909, while industrial production was rising by 4.7 percent, photographic equipment and material sales increased by 11 percent.3 Eastman Kodak’s sales during the same period experienced an average annual increase of over 17 percent.4
The 33 real significance of Eastman’s invention, however, was not economic. It was social. Professional photography gave individuals a glimpse of places they would never otherwise see. Amateur photography gave them the ability to record their own lives in a way they had never been able to do before. As author Brian Coe notes, “For the first time the snapshot album provided the man on the street with a permanent record of his family and its activities. . . . For the first time in history there exists an authentic visual record of the appearance and activities of the common man made without [literary] interpretation or bias.”5
In this way, the Kodak camera and film were technologies of expression. The pencil or paintbrush was also a technology of expression, of course. But it took years of training before they could be deployed by amateurs in any useful or effective way. With the Kodak, expression was possible much sooner and more simply. The barrier to expression was lowered. Snobs would sneer at its “quality”; professionals would discount it as irrelevant. But watch a child study how best to frame a picture and you get a sense of the experience of creativity that the Kodak enabled. Democratic tools gave ordinary people a way to express themselves more easily than any tools could have before.
What was required for this technology to flourish? Obviously, Eastman’s genius was an important part. But also important was the legal environment within which Eastman’s invention grew. For early in the history of photography, there was a series of judicial decisions that could well have changed the course of photography substantially. Courts were asked whether the photographer, amateur or professional, required permission before he could capture and print whatever image he wanted. Their answer was no.6
The arguments in favor of requiring permission will sound surprisingly familiar. The photographer was “taking” something from the person or building whose photograph he shot—pirating something of value. Some even thought he was taking the target’s soul. Just as Disney was not free to take the pencils that his animators used to draw Mickey, 34 so, too, should these photographers not be free to take images that they thought valuable.
On the other side was an argument that should be familiar, as well. Sure, there may be something of value being used. But citizens should have the right to capture at least those images that stand in public view. (Louis Brandeis, who would become a Supreme Court Justice, thought the rule should be different for images from private spaces.7) It may be that this means that the photographer gets something for nothing. Just as Disney could take inspiration from Steamboat Bill, Jr. or the Brothers Grimm, the photographer should be free to capture an image without compensating the source.
Fortunately for Mr. Eastman, and for photography in general, these early decisions went in favor of the pirates. In general, no permission would be required before an image could be captured and shared with others. Instead, permission was presumed. Freedom was the default. (The law would eventually craft an exception for famous people: commercial photographers who snap pictures of famous people for commercial purposes have more restrictions than the rest of us. But in the ordinary case, the image can be captured without clearing the rights to do the capturing.8)
We can only speculate about how photography would have developed had the law gone the other way. If the presumption had been against the photographer, then the photographer would have had to demonstrate permission. Perhaps Eastman Kodak would have had to demonstrate permission, too, before it developed the film upon which images were captured. After all, if permission were not granted, then Eastman Kodak would be benefiting from the “theft” committed by the photographer. Just as Napster benefited from the copyright infringements committed by Napster users, Kodak would be benefiting from the “image-right” infringement of its photographers. We could imagine the law then requiring that some form of permission be demonstrated before a company developed pictures. We could imagine a system developing to demonstrate that permission.
But 35 though we could imagine this system of permission, it would be very hard to see how photography could have flourished as it did if the requirement for permission had been built into the rules that govern it. Photography would have existed. It would have grown in importance over time. Professionals would have continued to use the technology as they did—since professionals could have more easily borne the burdens of the permission system. But the spread of photography to ordinary people would not have occurred. Nothing like that growth would have been realized. And certainly, nothing like that growth in a democratic technology of expression would have been realized.
If you drive through San Francisco’s Presidio, you
might see two gaudy yellow school buses painted over with
colorful and striking images, and the logo “Just
Think!” in place of the name of a school. But there’s
little that’s “just” cerebral in the projects that
these busses enable. These buses are filled with technologies
that teach kids to tinker with film. Not the film of Eastman. Not
even the film of your VCR. Rather the “film” of
digital cameras. Just Think! is a project that enables kids to
make films, as a way to understand and critique the filmed
culture that they find all around them. Each year, these busses
travel to more than thirty schools and enable three hundred to
five hundred children to learn something about media by doing
something with media. By doing, they think. By tinkering, they
learn.
These buses are not cheap, but the technology they carry is increasingly so. The cost of a high-quality digital video system has fallen dramatically. As one analyst puts it, “Five years ago, a good real-time digital video editing system cost $25,000. Today you can get professional quality for $595.”9 These buses are filled with technology that would have cost hundreds of thousands just ten years ago. And it is now feasible to imagine not just buses like this, but classrooms across the country where kids are learning more and more of something teachers call “media literacy.”
“Media 36 literacy,” as Dave Yanofsky, the executive director of Just Think!, puts it, “is the ability . . . to understand, analyze, and deconstruct media images. Its aim is to make [kids] literate about the way media works, the way it’s constructed, the way it’s delivered, and the way people access it.”
This may seem like an odd way to think about “literacy.” For most people, literacy is about reading and writing. Faulkner and Hemingway and noticing split infinitives are the things that “literate” people know about.
Maybe. But in a world where children see on average 390 hours of television commercials per year, or between 20,000 and 45,000 commercials generally,10 it is increasingly important to understand the “grammar” of media. For just as there is a grammar for the written word, so, too, is there one for media. And just as kids learn how to write by writing lots of terrible prose, kids learn how to write media by constructing lots of (at least at first) terrible media.
A growing field of academics and activists sees this form of literacy as crucial to the next generation of culture. For though anyone who has written understands how difficult writing is—how difficult it is to sequence the story, to keep a reader’s attention, to craft language to be understandable—few of us have any real sense of how difficult media is. Or more fundamentally, few of us have a sense of how media works, how it holds an audience or leads it through a story, how it triggers emotion or builds suspense.
It took filmmaking a generation before it could do these things well. But even then, the knowledge was in the filming, not in writing about the film. The skill came from experiencing the making of a film, not from reading a book about it. One learns to write by writing and then reflecting upon what one has written. One learns to write with images by making them and then reflecting upon what one has created.
This grammar has changed as media has changed. When it was just film, as Elizabeth Daley, executive director of the University of Southern California’s Annenberg Center for Communication and dean of the USC 37 School of Cinema-Television, explained to me, the grammar was about “the placement of objects, color, . . . rhythm, pacing, and texture.”11 But as computers open up an interactive space where a story is “played” as well as experienced, that grammar changes. The simple control of narrative is lost, and so other techniques are necessary. Author Michael Crichton had mastered the narrative of science fiction. But when he tried to design a computer game based on one of his works, it was a new craft he had to learn. How to lead people through a game without their feeling they have been led was not obvious, even to a wildly successful author.12
This skill is precisely the craft a filmmaker learns. As Daley describes, “people are very surprised about how they are led through a film. [I]t is perfectly constructed to keep you from seeing it, so you have no idea. If a filmmaker succeeds you do not know how you were led.” If you know you were led through a film, the film has failed.
Yet the push for an expanded literacy—one that goes beyond text to include audio and visual elements—is not about making better film directors. The aim is not to improve the profession of filmmaking at all. Instead, as Daley explained,
From my perspective, probably the most important digital divide is not access to a box. It’s the ability to be empowered with the language that that box works in. Otherwise only a very few people can write with this language, and all the rest of us are reduced to being read-only.
“Read-only.” Passive recipients of culture produced elsewhere. Couch potatoes. Consumers. This is the world of media from the twentieth century.
The twenty-first century could be different. This is the crucial point: It could be both read and write. Or at least reading and better understanding the craft of writing. Or best, reading and understanding the tools that enable the writing to lead or mislead. The aim of any literacy, and 38 this literacy in particular, is to “empower people to choose the appropriate language for what they need to create or express.”13 It is to enable students “to communicate in the language of the twenty-first century.”14
As with any language, this language comes more easily to some than to others. It doesn’t necessarily come more easily to those who excel in written language. Daley and Stephanie Barish, director of the Institute for Multimedia Literacy at the Annenberg Center, describe one particularly poignant example of a project they ran in a high school. The high school was a very poor inner-city Los Angeles school. In all the traditional measures of success, this school was a failure. But Daley and Barish ran a program that gave kids an opportunity to use film to express meaning about something the students know something about—gun violence.
The class was held on Friday afternoons, and it created a relatively new problem for the school. While the challenge in most classes was getting the kids to come, the challenge in this class was keeping them away. The “kids were showing up at 6 A.M. and leaving at 5 at night,” said Barish. They were working harder than in any other class to do what education should be about—learning how to express themselves.
Using whatever “free web stuff they could find,” and relatively simple tools to enable the kids to mix “image, sound, and text,” Barish said this class produced a series of projects that showed something about gun violence that few would otherwise understand. This was an issue close to the lives of these students. The project “gave them a tool and empowered them to be able to both understand it and talk about it,” Barish explained. That tool succeeded in creating expression—far more successfully and powerfully than could have been created using only text. “If you had said to these students, ‘you have to do it in text,’ they would’ve just thrown their hands up and gone and done something else,” Barish described, in part, no doubt, because expressing themselves in text is not something these students can do well. Yet neither is text a form in which these ideas can be expressed well. The power of this message depended upon its connection to this form of expression.
“But 39 isn’t education about teaching kids to write?” I asked. In part, of course, it is. But why are we teaching kids to write? Education, Daley explained, is about giving students a way of “constructing meaning.” To say that that means just writing is like saying teaching writing is only about teaching kids how to spell. Text is one part—and increasingly, not the most powerful part—of constructing meaning. As Daley explained in the most moving part of our interview,
What you want is to give these students ways of constructing meaning. If all you give them is text, they’re not going to do it. Because they can’t. You know, you’ve got Johnny who can look at a video, he can play a video game, he can do graffiti all over your walls, he can take your car apart, and he can do all sorts of other things. He just can’t read your text. So Johnny comes to school and you say, “Johnny, you’re illiterate. Nothing you can do matters.” Well, Johnny then has two choices: He can dismiss you or he [can] dismiss himself. If his ego is healthy at all, he’s going to dismiss you. [But i]nstead, if you say, “Well, with all these things that you can do, let’s talk about this issue. Play for me music that you think reflects that, or show me images that you think reflect that, or draw for me something that reflects that.” Not by giving a kid a video camera and . . . saying, “Let’s go have fun with the video camera and make a little movie.” But instead, really help you take these elements that you understand, that are your language, and construct meaning about the topic. . . .That empowers enormously. And then what happens, of course, is eventually, as it has happened in all these classes, they bump up against the fact, “I need to explain this and I really need to write something.” And as one of the teachers told Stephanie, they would rewrite a paragraph 5, 6, 7, 8 times, till they got it right.
Because they needed to. There was a reason for doing it. They needed to say something, as opposed to just jumping through your hoops. They actually needed to use a language that they didn’t 40 speak very well. But they had come to understand that they had a lot of power with this language.
When two planes crashed into the World Trade Center, another into the Pentagon, and a fourth into a Pennsylvania field, all media around the world shifted to this news. Every moment of just about every day for that week, and for weeks after, television in particular, and media generally, retold the story of the events we had just witnessed. The telling was a retelling, because we had seen the events that were described. The genius of this awful act of terrorism was that the delayed second attack was perfectly timed to assure that the whole world would be watching.
These retellings had an increasingly familiar feel. There was music scored for the intermissions, and fancy graphics that flashed across the screen. There was a formula to interviews. There was “balance,” and seriousness. This was news choreographed in the way we have increasingly come to expect it, “news as entertainment,” even if the entertainment is tragedy.
But in addition to this produced news about the “tragedy of September 11,” those of us tied to the Internet came to see a very different production as well. The Internet was filled with accounts of the same events. Yet these Internet accounts had a very different flavor. Some people constructed photo pages that captured images from around the world and presented them as slide shows with text. Some offered open letters. There were sound recordings. There was anger and frustration. There were attempts to provide context. There was, in short, an extraordinary worldwide barn raising, in the sense Mike Godwin uses the term in his book Cyber Rights, around a news event that had captured the attention of the world. There was ABC and CBS, but there was also the Internet.
I don’t mean simply to praise the Internet—though I do think the people who supported this form of speech should be praised. I mean instead to point to a significance in this form of speech. For like a Kodak, the Internet enables people to capture images. And like in a movie by 41 a student on the “Just Think!” bus, the visual images could be mixed with sound or text.
But unlike any technology for simply capturing images, the Internet allows these creations to be shared with an extraordinary number of people, practically instantaneously. This is something new in our tradition—not just that culture can be captured mechanically, and obviously not just that events are commented upon critically, but that this mix of captured images, sound, and commentary can be widely spread practically instantaneously.
September 11 was not an aberration. It was a beginning. Around the same time, a form of communication that has grown dramatically was just beginning to come into public consciousness: the Web-log, or blog. The blog is a kind of public diary, and within some cultures, such as in Japan, it functions very much like a diary. In those cultures, it records private facts in a public way—it’s a kind of electronic Jerry Springer, available anywhere in the world.
But in the United States, blogs have taken on a very different character. There are some who use the space simply to talk about their private life. But there are many who use the space to engage in public discourse. Discussing matters of public import, criticizing others who are mistaken in their views, criticizing politicians about the decisions they make, offering solutions to problems we all see: blogs create the sense of a virtual public meeting, but one in which we don’t all hope to be there at the same time and in which conversations are not necessarily linked. The best of the blog entries are relatively short; they point directly to words used by others, criticizing with or adding to them. They are arguably the most important form of unchoreographed public discourse that we have.
That’s a strong statement. Yet it says as much about our democracy as it does about blogs. This is the part of America that is most difficult for those of us who love America to accept: Our democracy has atrophied. Of course we have elections, and most of the time the courts allow those elections to count. A relatively small number of people vote in 42 those elections. The cycle of these elections has become totally professionalized and routinized. Most of us think this is democracy.
But democracy has never just been about elections. Democracy means rule by the people, but rule means something more than mere elections. In our tradition, it also means control through reasoned discourse. This was the idea that captured the imagination of Alexis de Tocqueville, the nineteenth-century French lawyer who wrote the most important account of early “Democracy in America.” It wasn’t popular elections that fascinated him—it was the jury, an institution that gave ordinary people the right to choose life or death for other citizens. And most fascinating for him was that the jury didn’t just vote about the outcome they would impose. They deliberated. Members argued about the “right” result; they tried to persuade each other of the “right” result, and in criminal cases at least, they had to agree upon a unanimous result for the process to come to an end.15
Yet even this institution flags in American life today. And in its place, there is no systematic effort to enable citizen deliberation. Some are pushing to create just such an institution.16 And in some towns in New England, something close to deliberation remains. But for most of us for most of the time, there is no time or place for “democratic deliberation” to occur.
More bizarrely, there is generally not even permission for it to occur. We, the most powerful democracy in the world, have developed a strong norm against talking about politics. It’s fine to talk about politics with people you agree with. But it is rude to argue about politics with people you disagree with. Political discourse becomes isolated, and isolated discourse becomes more extreme.17 We say what our friends want to hear, and hear very little beyond what our friends say.
Enter the blog. The blog’s very architecture solves one part of this problem. People post when they want to post, and people read when they want to read. The most difficult time is synchronous time. Technologies that enable asynchronous communication, such as e-mail, increase the opportunity for communication. Blogs allow for public discourse 43 without the public ever needing to gather in a single public place.
But beyond architecture, blogs also have solved the problem of norms. There’s no norm (yet) in blog space not to talk about politics. Indeed, the space is filled with political speech, on both the right and the left. Some of the most popular sites are conservative or libertarian, but there are many of all political stripes. And even blogs that are not political cover political issues when the occasion merits.
The significance of these blogs is tiny now, though not so tiny. The name Howard Dean may well have faded from the 2004 presidential race but for blogs. Yet even if the number of readers is small, the reading is having an effect.
One direct effect is on stories that had a different life cycle in the mainstream media. The Trent Lott affair is an example. When Lott “misspoke” at a party for Senator Strom Thurmond, essentially praising Thurmond’s segregationist policies, he calculated correctly that this story would disappear from the mainstream press within forty-eight hours. It did. But he didn’t calculate its life cycle in blog space. The bloggers kept researching the story. Over time, more and more instances of the same “misspeaking” emerged. Finally, the story broke back into the mainstream press. In the end, Lott was forced to resign as senate majority leader.18
This different cycle is possible because the same commercial pressures don’t exist with blogs as with other ventures. Television and newspapers are commercial entities. They must work to keep attention. If they lose readers, they lose revenue. Like sharks, they must move on.
But bloggers don’t have a similar constraint. They can obsess, they can focus, they can get serious. If a particular blogger writes a particularly interesting story, more and more people link to that story. And as the number of links to a particular story increases, it rises in the ranks of stories. People read what is popular; what is popular has been selected by a very democratic process of peer-generated rankings.
There’s a second way, as well, in which blogs have a different cycle from 44 the mainstream press. As Dave Winer, one of the fathers of this movement and a software author for many decades, told me, another difference is the absence of a financial “conflict of interest.” “I think you have to take the conflict of interest” out of journalism, Winer told me. “An amateur journalist simply doesn’t have a conflict of interest, or the conflict of interest is so easily disclosed that you know you can sort of get it out of the way.”
These conflicts become more important as media becomes more concentrated (more on this below). A concentrated media can hide more from the public than an unconcentrated media can—as CNN admitted it did after the Iraq war because it was afraid of the consequences to its own employees.19 It also needs to sustain a more coherent account. (In the middle of the Iraq war, I read a post on the Internet from someone who was at that time listening to a satellite uplink with a reporter in Iraq. The New York headquarters was telling the reporter over and over that her account of the war was too bleak: She needed to offer a more optimistic story. When she told New York that wasn’t warranted, they told her that they were writing “the story.”)
Blog space gives amateurs a way to enter the debate—“amateur” not in the sense of inexperienced, but in the sense of an Olympic athlete, meaning not paid by anyone to give their reports. It allows for a much broader range of input into a story, as reporting on the Columbia disaster revealed, when hundreds from across the southwest United States turned to the Internet to retell what they had seen.20 And it drives readers to read across the range of accounts and “triangulate,” as Winer puts it, the truth. Blogs, Winer says, are “communicating directly with our constituency, and the middle man is out of it”—with all the benefits, and costs, that might entail.
Winer is optimistic about the future of journalism infected with blogs. “It’s going to become an essential skill,” Winer predicts, for public figures and increasingly for private figures as well. It’s not clear that “journalism” is happy about this—some journalists have been told to curtail their blogging.21 But it is clear that we are still in transition. “A lot 45 of what we are doing now is warm-up exercises,” Winer told me. There is a lot that must mature before this space has its mature effect. And as the inclusion of content in this space is the least infringing use of the Internet (meaning infringing on copyright), Winer said, “we will be the last thing that gets shut down.”
This speech affects democracy. Winer thinks that happens because “you don’t have to work for somebody who controls, [for] a gate-keeper.” That is true. But it affects democracy in another way as well. As more and more citizens express what they think, and defend it in writing, that will change the way people understand public issues. It is easy to be wrong and misguided in your head. It is harder when the product of your mind can be criticized by others. Of course, it is a rare human who admits that he has been persuaded that he is wrong. But it is even rarer for a human to ignore when he has been proven wrong. The writing of ideas, arguments, and criticism improves democracy. Today there are probably a couple of million blogs where such writing happens. When there are ten million, there will be something extraordinary to report.
John Seely Brown is the chief scientist of the Xerox
Corporation. His work, as his Web site describes it, is
“human learning and . . . the creation of knowledge
ecologies for creating . . . innovation.”
Brown thus looks at these technologies of digital creativity a bit differently from the perspectives I’ve sketched so far. I’m sure he would be excited about any technology that might improve democracy. But his real excitement comes from how these technologies affect learning.
As Brown believes, we learn by tinkering. When “a lot of us grew up,” he explains, that tinkering was done “on motorcycle engines, lawn-mower engines, automobiles, radios, and so on.” But digital technologies enable a different kind of tinkering—with abstract ideas though in concrete form. The kids at Just Think! not only think about how a commercial portrays a politician; using digital technology, they can take 46 the commercial apart and manipulate it, tinker with it to see how it does what it does. Digital technologies launch a kind of bricolage, or “free collage,” as Brown calls it. Many get to add to or transform the tinkering of many others.
The best large-scale example of this kind of tinkering so far is free software or open-source software (FS/OSS). FS/OSS is software whose source code is shared. Anyone can download the technology that makes a FS/OSS program run. And anyone eager to learn how a particular bit of FS/OSS technology works can tinker with the code.
This opportunity creates a “completely new kind of learning platform,” as Brown describes. “As soon as you start doing that, you . . . unleash a free collage on the community, so that other people can start looking at your code, tinkering with it, trying it out, seeing if they can improve it.” Each effort is a kind of apprenticeship. “Open source becomes a major apprenticeship platform.”
In this process, “the concrete things you tinker with are abstract. They are code.” Kids are “shifting to the ability to tinker in the abstract, and this tinkering is no longer an isolated activity that you’re doing in your garage. You are tinkering with a community platform. . . . You are tinkering with other people’s stuff. The more you tinker the more you improve.” The more you improve, the more you learn.
This same thing happens with content, too. And it happens in the same collaborative way when that content is part of the Web. As Brown puts it, “the Web [is] the first medium that truly honors multiple forms of intelligence.” Earlier technologies, such as the typewriter or word processors, helped amplify text. But the Web amplifies much more than text. “The Web . . . says if you are musical, if you are artistic, if you are visual, if you are interested in film . . . [then] there is a lot you can start to do on this medium. [It] can now amplify and honor these multiple forms of intelligence.”
Brown is talking about what Elizabeth Daley, Stephanie Barish, and Just Think! teach: that this tinkering with culture teaches as well as 47 creates. It develops talents differently, and it builds a different kind of recognition.
Yet the freedom to tinker with these objects is not guaranteed. Indeed, as we’ll see through the course of this book, that freedom is increasingly highly contested. While there’s no doubt that your father had the right to tinker with the car engine, there’s great doubt that your child will have the right to tinker with the images she finds all around. The law and, increasingly, technology interfere with a freedom that technology, and curiosity, would otherwise ensure.
These restrictions have become the focus of researchers and scholars. Professor Ed Felten of Princeton (whom we’ll see more of in chapter 10) has developed a powerful argument in favor of the “right to tinker” as it applies to computer science and to knowledge in general.22 But Brown’s concern is earlier, or younger, or more fundamental. It is about the learning that kids can do, or can’t do, because of the law.
“This is where education in the twenty-first century is going,” Brown explains. We need to “understand how kids who grow up digital think and want to learn.”
“Yet,” as Brown continued, and as the balance of this book will evince, “we are building a legal system that completely suppresses the natural tendencies of today’s digital kids. . . . We’re building an architecture that unleashes 60 percent of the brain [and] a legal system that closes down that part of the brain.”
We’re building a technology that takes the magic of Kodak, mixes moving images and sound, and adds a space for commentary and an opportunity to spread that creativity everywhere. But we’re building the law to close down that technology.
“No way to run a culture,” as Brewster Kahle, whom
we’ll meet in chapter 9, quipped to me in a rare moment of
despondence.
CHAPTER THREE: Catalogs
In the fall of 2002, Jesse Jordan of Oceanside, New York,
enrolled as a freshman at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, in
Troy, New York. His major at RPI was information technology.
Though he is not a programmer, in October Jesse decided to begin
to tinker with search engine technology that was available on the
RPI network.
RPI is one of America’s foremost technological research institutions. It offers degrees in fields ranging from architecture and engineering to information sciences. More than 65 percent of its five thousand undergraduates finished in the top 10 percent of their high school class. The school is thus a perfect mix of talent and experience to imagine and then build, a generation for the network age.
RPI’s computer network links students, faculty, and administration to one another. It also links RPI to the Internet. Not everything available on the RPI network is available on the Internet. But the network is designed to enable students to get access to the Internet, as well as more intimate access to other members of the RPI community.
Search engines are a measure of a network’s intimacy. Google brought 49 the Internet much closer to all of us by fantastically improving the quality of search on the network. Specialty search engines can do this even better. The idea of “intranet” search engines, search engines that search within the network of a particular institution, is to provide users of that institution with better access to material from that institution. Businesses do this all the time, enabling employees to have access to material that people outside the business can’t get. Universities do it as well.
These engines are enabled by the network technology itself. Microsoft, for example, has a network file system that makes it very easy for search engines tuned to that network to query the system for information about the publicly (within that network) available content. Jesse’s search engine was built to take advantage of this technology. It used Microsoft’s network file system to build an index of all the files available within the RPI network.
Jesse’s wasn’t the first search engine built for the RPI network. Indeed, his engine was a simple modification of engines that others had built. His single most important improvement over those engines was to fix a bug within the Microsoft file-sharing system that could cause a user’s computer to crash. With the engines that existed before, if you tried to access a file through a Windows browser that was on a computer that was off-line, your computer could crash. Jesse modified the system a bit to fix that problem, by adding a button that a user could click to see if the machine holding the file was still on-line.
Jesse’s engine went on-line in late October. Over the following six months, he continued to tweak it to improve its functionality. By March, the system was functioning quite well. Jesse had more than one million files in his directory, including every type of content that might be on users’ computers.
Thus the index his search engine produced included pictures, which students could use to put on their own Web sites; copies of notes or research; copies of information pamphlets; movie clips that students might have created; university brochures—basically anything that users 50 of the RPI network made available in a public folder of their computer.
But the index also included music files. In fact, one quarter of the files that Jesse’s search engine listed were music files. But that means, of course, that three quarters were not, and—so that this point is absolutely clear—Jesse did nothing to induce people to put music files in their public folders. He did nothing to target the search engine to these files. He was a kid tinkering with a Google-like technology at a university where he was studying information science, and hence, tinkering was the aim. Unlike Google, or Microsoft, for that matter, he made no money from this tinkering; he was not connected to any business that would make any money from this experiment. He was a kid tinkering with technology in an environment where tinkering with technology was precisely what he was supposed to do.
On April 3, 2003, Jesse was contacted by the dean of students at RPI. The dean informed Jesse that the Recording Industry Association of America, the RIAA, would be filing a lawsuit against him and three other students whom he didn’t even know, two of them at other universities. A few hours later, Jesse was served with papers from the suit. As he read these papers and watched the news reports about them, he was increasingly astonished.
“It was absurd,” he told me. “I don’t think I did anything wrong. . . . I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the search engine that I ran or . . . what I had done to it. I mean, I hadn’t modified it in any way that promoted or enhanced the work of pirates. I just modified the search engine in a way that would make it easier to use”—again, a search engine, which Jesse had not himself built, using the Windows file-sharing system, which Jesse had not himself built, to enable members of the RPI community to get access to content, which Jesse had not himself created or posted, and the vast majority of which had nothing to do with music.
But the RIAA branded Jesse a pirate. They claimed he operated a network and had therefore “willfully” violated copyright laws. They demanded 51 that he pay them the damages for his wrong. For cases of “willful infringement,” the Copyright Act specifies something lawyers call “statutory damages.” These damages permit a copyright owner to claim $150,000 per infringement. As the RIAA alleged more than one hundred specific copyright infringements, they therefore demanded that Jesse pay them at least $15,000,000.
Similar lawsuits were brought against three other students: one other student at RPI, one at Michigan Technical University, and one at Princeton. Their situations were similar to Jesse’s. Though each case was different in detail, the bottom line in each was exactly the same: huge demands for “damages” that the RIAA claimed it was entitled to. If you added up the claims, these four lawsuits were asking courts in the United States to award the plaintiffs close to $100 billion—six times the total profit of the film industry in 2001.1
Jesse called his parents. They were supportive but a bit frightened. An uncle was a lawyer. He began negotiations with the RIAA. They demanded to know how much money Jesse had. Jesse had saved $12,000 from summer jobs and other employment. They demanded $12,000 to dismiss the case.
The RIAA wanted Jesse to admit to doing something wrong. He refused. They wanted him to agree to an injunction that would essentially make it impossible for him to work in many fields of technology for the rest of his life. He refused. They made him understand that this process of being sued was not going to be pleasant. (As Jesse’s father recounted to me, the chief lawyer on the case, Matt Oppenheimer, told Jesse, “You don’t want to pay another visit to a dentist like me.”) And throughout, the RIAA insisted it would not settle the case until it took every penny Jesse had saved.
Jesse’s family was outraged at these claims. They wanted to fight. But Jesse’s uncle worked to educate the family about the nature of the American legal system. Jesse could fight the RIAA. He might even win. But the cost of fighting a lawsuit like this, Jesse was told, would be at least $250,000. If he won, he would not recover that money. If he won, 52 he would have a piece of paper saying he had won, and a piece of paper saying he and his family were bankrupt.
So Jesse faced a mafia-like choice: $250,000 and a chance at winning, or $12,000 and a settlement.
The recording industry insists this is a matter of law and morality. Let’s put the law aside for a moment and think about the morality. Where is the morality in a lawsuit like this? What is the virtue in scapegoatism? The RIAA is an extraordinarily powerful lobby. The president of the RIAA is reported to make more than $1 million a year. Artists, on the other hand, are not well paid. The average recording artist makes $45,900.2 There are plenty of ways for the RIAA to affect and direct policy. So where is the morality in taking money from a student for running a search engine?3
On June 23, Jesse wired his savings to the lawyer working for the RIAA. The case against him was then dismissed. And with this, this kid who had tinkered a computer into a $15 million lawsuit became an activist:
I was definitely not an activist [before]. I never really meant to be an activist. . . . [But] I’ve been pushed into this. In no way did I ever foresee anything like this, but I think it’s just completely absurd what the RIAA has done.
Jesse’s parents betray a certain pride in their reluctant
activist. As his father told me, Jesse “considers himself
very conservative, and so do I. . . . He’s not a tree hugger. . .
. I think it’s bizarre that they would pick on him. But he wants
to let people know that they’re sending the wrong message. And he
wants to correct the record.”
CHAPTER FOUR: “Pirates”
If “piracy” means using the creative
property of others without their permission—if “if
value, then right” is true—then the history of the
content industry is a history of piracy. Every important sector
of “big media” today—film, records, radio, and
cable TV—was born of a kind of piracy so defined. The
consistent story is how last generation’s pirates join this
generation’s country club—until now.
The film industry of Hollywood was built by fleeing
pirates.1 Creators and directors migrated from the
East Coast to California in the early twentieth century in part
to escape controls that patents granted the inventor of
filmmaking, Thomas Edison. These controls were exercised through
a monopoly “trust,” the Motion Pictures Patents
Company, and were based on Thomas Edison’s creative
property—patents. Edison formed the MPPC to exercise the
rights this creative property gave