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Feature
Who Owns Art?
The Many Complexities of Determining Ownership for Art
When Tonja Carter, Harper Lee’s lawyer and longtime friend, and HarperCollins publishers revealed their intention to publish a long-lost manuscript supposedly rediscovered among Lee’s archives, eyebrows began to raise. The somewhat suspicious tale of the manuscript’s miraculous reappearance and Lee’s subsequent “surprise and delight” at its impending publication was quickly questioned by the media, who jumped to point out the tale’s incongruity with Lee’s past statements about never publishing again. Yet the details that have since emerged and the series of increasingly sketchy announcements from Carter have only made the tale murkier and raised a difficult question: who owns art, the artist or their audience?
The success of To Kill a Mockingbird notoriously drove Lee to seek seclusion in her hometown of Monroeville, Alabama, and the demands of the press and public had her vowing to never publish a novel again. Her recent change of mind and the purported grateful acceptance with which she met plans to publish the manuscript should absolutely raise some doubt among readers—we are asked to suspend quite a lot of disbelief when told that her adamant, long-held opinions on publishing future novels have reversed now that she is an 89-year-old stroke survivor in an assisted living facility (be sure to read The Onion’s perfect response to Tonja Carter’s latest announcement here). But even if we knew for sure that Lee had been the victim of an unethical plot that took advantage of her mental state to profit (and break records with that profit), does that mean Go Set a Watchman should never have been published?
The publication of an author’s work against his or her wishes is nothing new. In fact, quite a few of our universally beloved classics were brought to us by disobedient executors, friends, and family members after the author’s death. The argument for posthumous publishing is obvious: can it truly be unethical to publish something that influences millions of readers and holds a prominent position in literary cultures for years to come? As Joanna Scutts of The Guardian points out, that would leave quote a few holes in our classics canon:
“If it weren’t for the posthumous meddling of friends, family, patrons and publishers, we wouldn’t be able to read the Aeneid, The Canterbury Tales, Northanger Abbey, The Bell Jar, The Master and Margarita, A Confederacy of Dunces, 2666, or The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. We’d be without pretty much the entire oeuvres of Emily Dickinson and Shakespeare. So even when publication goes against an author’s express wishes – when Max Brod refused to destroy his friend Franz Kafka’s unfinished works – it’s hard to maintain the position that the writer is always right, or to respect the dead at the expense of the living culture. As the writer Lincoln Michel recently put it, in a piece otherwise in favour of an author’s claims: ‘A world without unfinished Kafka is essentially a world without Kafka, and that’s not one I want to live in.’”
Consider an author’s potential motives for suppressing the distribution of his or her work. Often, it is insecurity or past failures that prevent an author from seeking publication. In these cases, failure to respect the author’s wishes can easily be justified; the act of disobeying them and publishing their writing anyway is, in itself, an act of respect because it is driven by a strong belief in the power and importance of their words, thus canceling out any disservice to the deceased artist. But this comfortable rationalization begins to get messier the more one considers alternative motives an author might have for keeping a manuscript buried. For example – privacy. Perhaps the author wants highly personal writing to be kept private, especially if prior success has turned them into a public figure.
Or perhaps, like Harper Lee, the author feels that certain manuscripts don’t warrant publication because they are unnecessary or out of place in the story that author is trying to tell and the legacy they want to leave. In such cases, is it right to overrule the artist for the sake of the audience? Should an artist’s efforts to exert some control over their body of work and legacy be ignored for the “greater good?”
The more successful a writer, artist, or public figure, the less ownership they have over their art; with a certain level of talent and genius comes the idea that the artists’ work is “owed” to the public, that that genius must be shared and consumed for our collective benefit, even if that means ignoring the artists’ intentions. For an author like Lee, who penned a book so moving it is not only beloved to millions, but also considered definitive to our nation’s literary identity, the question of ownership of a related manuscript is highly debatable both ways. And as the new Atticus continues to elicit all manner of reactions, from comparisons with current social and political issues to hasty name changes, the emotional nature of these reactions and the ensuing conversation seem to justify Go Set a Watchman’s publication, even if that publication violates the intentions of its author. However, Lee isn’t the only author whose ownership is currently being questioned.
To truly understand the complexities in assigning ownership to literature, consider the state of George R.R. Martin’s sprawling fantasy series A Song of Ice and Fire and its fans. The first book, A Game of Thrones, was published back in 1996 and followed in quick succession by the second and third installments. Yet as the notoriously long-winded series progressed, the publication dates stretched farther and farther apart; the initial two year wait between books lengthened to five years, then six, then to the current waiting game that has fans tearing their hair out.
Martin’s slowing progress is understandable when considering the scope and scale of his story, which develops over 1,000 pages rich with extraneous characters and plots. The fervent anticipation that builds after the release of each new book is a testament to Martin’s incredible writing and the world he has so painstakingly fleshed out for readers. But this exhaustive world-building has also drawn criticism from reviewers and readers alike. Some once-loyal readers have bemoaned the lack of editing and feel let down by Martin’s inability to hasten or simplify his writing style. And, with an incredibly popular TV series speeding through the series’ material, making mincemeat out of fan theories and predictions, these displeased fans can point to specific time-consuming story lines that have been cut from the show and thereby conclude that said story lines are the self-indulgent ramblings of an author who can’t get to the point.
But should the show, which many critics have found to be a simplistic retelling that misses the point of Martin’s trope-busting fantasy style, (read Salon’s Matt Saccaro’s excellent article on the point here), and which operates under an entirely different set of constrictions than a novel (budget, filming feasibility, running time, and a different audience are just a few Benioff and Weiss have had to grapple with) really be our reference point in dictating to Martin how to finish his own story? But therein lies the problem: is it Martin’s story, or has the story in its two iterations moved beyond Martin’s control, to exist as a sort of floating unfinished entity, collectively owned by a fandom who are owed a satisfactory conclusion?
With HBO’s critically and commercially successful adaptation came an influx of new fans late to the book series, mainstream press coverage, and an immense increase in pressure for Martin to release the next installment. Fans are currently grappling with the painful realization that HBO’s adaptation of the series will, in all likelihood, ruin the end of the books, and this had led to a number of people expressing the belief that they are “owed” a thorough and satisfactory ending from Martin, ideally before the show spoilers are revealed. That belief does have merit, when considering the amount of time and energy readers have invested into Martin’s world and the emotional attachments so easy to form with his incredible characters. Yet at the same time, it is Martin’s world and his work, and the no fan can claim to have spent more time with the characters and story than Martin himself.
Perhaps discerning ownership in literature is so messy because of the nature of the “art” in question; a story is not a concrete possession easily pinned down and matched to its rightful owner, but a living, breathing force that interacts with each reader in a unique way. And great stories, like those created by Lee and Martin, have the ability to engage us in a highly personal, isolated way, encouraging feelings of “ownership,” while also connecting us through the universal emotions they evoke. That these questions of ownership are raised at all in regards to Martin and Lee is a testament to the amazing writing they have done – and that is something you can acknowledge no matter which side you land on in the debates.
Lauren White graduated from the University of Michigan with a degree in History and English. She is serving as Assistant Editor and Awards Account Manager at Independent Publisher. Please email her at lwhite [at] bookpublishing.com with any questions and comments.