Photographs that carry and change memory

 Through taking this class, I have become quite interested in how photographs can transmit, perpetuate, and change collective memory over time. Photography as a medium of “truth telling” and expression has changed much since its invention in the early to mid 19^th Century. The changes in technology (i.e. capturing, processing, and printing techniques) have often also changed the way in which photographs carry and convey memory in a culture. For example, we often think of the American Civil War in the black and white or sepia-tones of the daguerreotypes or tintypes that Civil War soldiers or battles were photographed in. This can cause the Civil War to seem somewhat distant to modern viewers who are used to crisp color images. These photographs form our cultural memory of this war and can alter it’s meaning from its original meaning. The American Civil War was the first instance where a war was photographed (as the technology that made photography accessible to be used on a large scale had only recently come into existence), and this made our memory of the war different than any memory of war in the past. Our cultural memory of war before the American Civil War had been influenced mostly by paintings, which usually depicted “glorious” battles or generals in full military uniforms. This was, of course, far from the brutal realities of war. The photographs of the American Civil War, on the other hand, showed thousands of dead and bloated bodies strewn across battlefields. They showed the smoke of battles, amputated limbs, and blood. This made the horror of the war more real to Americans. One effect of this was that the meaning of the Civil War changed from a war fought over Slavery that the Union had succeeded in winning to an awful war where many people died in agony. A positive affect of this change was that war was starting to be seen much more for the horrible reality that it is. Nevertheless, a not so positive affect was that the meaning of the war, being initially fought to save the Union but fought more toward the end (after President Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation) to end Slavery in the United States to a pointless war of suffering and death. Therefore, the role of Slavery in causing the war in the first place was relegated to only a minor narrative in subsequent memory. Some historians have even argued that this shifting memory of the Civil War made it harder for African-Americans to realize many of the advantages of freedom after the war as well as one of the reasons that is was almost 100 years after the war before the African-American Civil Rights Movement began in earnest (Stampp).

            Another example of how changing photographic technology can alter collective memory is a personal one, though I suspect that it may be true for others of my generation or younger. This is the depiction of cities such as New York, London, Chicago and others from the 1960s and 1970s. I am fascinated by the photographs of 1970s New York City and London for their grit, grime, and personality, and the fact that the photographs are often in black and white or in color that is very different from the color photographs of today. These photographs make that time not only seem more distant but more exotic and interesting. The way that the subways look, the people, the dirt, graffiti, and grime in the sort of strange off color makes the time seem fascinating to me and I suspect to others or my generation. I also suspect that people who lived through the 1960s and 1970s in New York, London, or Chicago, for instance, have a less nostalgic or at least rosy view of that time because of the high crime in those cities during that time. This is yet another example of how photographs carry memory in a somewhat distorted form. This distortion, nevertheless, is what makes memory different then pure history.

            The fact that photographs carry, change, and reassert memory in a culture is why we, as archivists, or librarians should never ignore our collections of photographs. It is often the photographs that carry the more powerful and visceral records of the past for people. It is also important to remember, as students of history to realize the way memory is carried on and sometimes distorted by photographs.

Bibliography:

1. Kenneth M. Stampp, The Causes of the Civil War (New York, Simon & Shuster, 1991).

2. Picturing US History: http://picturinghistory.gc.cuny.edu/?p=1027. Accessed December 2-11, 2013

Some additional images to accompany final blog post

Thomas Cole: The Course of Empire: The Savage State, 1836

Cole, The Course of Empire: The Arcadian (or Pastoral) State, 1836

Cole, The Course of Empire: Consummation, 1836

I posted this to accompany my final blog post. There are 2 other paintings in the series that have to do with decadence, decline, and fall, and then, finally, the built environment being overtaken by nature.

The Problematic of Visual Literacy

 What is this a picture of?

Cara Finnegan’s 2006 article “What Is This a Picture of?: Some Thoughts on Images and Archives” prompted my choice of topic. Finnegan describes her experience researching in the Farm Security Administration-Office of War Information (“FSA-OWI”) photo collection at the Library of Congress as a way of approaching her real subject:  polysemic meaning in photodocumentary images.

Though some may consider squishiness of meaning more in the realm of postmodern criticism than library science, as one who comes from and hopes to head back to academia, the more acquainted librarians, archivists, and catalogers are with the issues that the scholarly community wrestles with the better. Uncovering heretofore unknown historical data is in only part of a scholar’s task and for some it is not even their primary focus. Rather, many historians and art historians are revisiting ground that has been covered before, looking at both primary material and older scholarship with a more critical, and for the latter, a newly skeptical eye. Scholarly inquiry is more interdisciplinary as well, which makes research more difficult, as classification systems have tended to cling to clear demarcations between subject areas.

 

As the literature on image cataloging attests, posing the question “what is this a picture of?” is essential yet not that easily answered (Layne). In “What Is This a Picture of?” Finnegan describes her initial inability to locate an original image of a man in overalls standing in front of a shack. After much searching, she realizes that she needed to address the image “on its own terms” in order to find it, meaning that she had to wrestle intellectually with the collection’s local classification system. She finally discovered it under “Shacks,” a subcategory of “Homes and Living Conditions” (117). Finnegan draws two lessons about visual literacy from this experience. The first pertains to the role of classification systems in assigning meaning to an image and the second addresses the influence of context on meaning.

For me, the dialectic between image and context was already a familiar topic, so the fresh take that I got from this class came from Paul Conway’s and Martha A. Sandweiss’ articles, in which they discuss digital surrogates of photographs and electronic versus the original viewing environments, and then the effect of both on meaning. I will discuss their main points below. What was both new and fascinating to me was Finnegan’s reflections on the role of image classification systems on meaning, which she derives from Alan Trachtenberg’s 1988 essay “From Image to Story: Reading the File” on the subject categories and subcategories that organize the FSA-OWI photo collection. I will be focusing on Trachtenberg’s brilliant and nuanced essay, which I thoroughly enjoyed reading and highly recommend.

Context, meaning, and digital surrogates

Over the course of her research, Finnegan finds the image of the sharecropper in front of the shack reprinted in different publications and notes how the meaning it has in the FSA-OWI archive changes depending on where it appears in print—that the context of the article it illustrates inflects its meaning.  Conway’s and Sandweiss’ articles explore the factors that can affect the meaning of documentary photos, both originals and digital versions. Their work reminds us of the sheer number and variety of factors that can affect meaning, and, by extension, that librarians, curators, archivists need to be mindful of these factors so that they do not unintentionally alter the significance of their collections. 

Sandweiss notes that photographer, sitter (subject), and viewer all construct meaning, as does the photographic medium (the production process) (193–97), and in each case she elucidates how. Finally, she arrives at the digital surrogate, and the rest of her article deals with the characteristics of these virtual objects vis à vis their material analogues. She looks at how the ability to hold a photo in your hand, appreciate its dimensions, turn it over to see markings or a caption, or view it on an album page or as part of contact sheet surrounded by other pictures (physical and intellectual context) all contribute to meaning. She argues for the importance of the information a scholar can glean from the actual object, and points out that the circulation of an image, as well as its reappropriation (i.e., its being reprinted or altered) is also part of its history. Here she veers into the discipline of material culture. Sandweiss is not arguing against digitization but rather reminding us that as many physical features of the original as possible need to be included when creating an electronic version so that vital information is not lost. What I found interesting about her argument for inclusiveness is that it echoes one made by medievalist art historians a couple of decades ago for photographing the text and marginalia juxtaposed to manuscript illuminations so as not to isolate them from their intellectual context.

Turning to the image in digital form, a particularly significant passage in the Conway article addresses the issue of human agency in the digitization process and its impact on meaning. The digital photographic images we have access to, per Conway, are the results of decisions and actions among archivists who select the pictures to be scanned, digital preservation specialists who decide on their resolution and format, the folks stuck at the scanners, systems architects, and Web designers (427). Sandweiss concentrates on the archivist or curator, whose biases dictate which images will and won’t be scanned, thus potentially affecting not only access but also the researcher’s conclusions about the meaning of an image, its series, and the photographer’s intentions (200). Likewise, she argues for the importance leaving a procedural record of the steps in going from original to digital so it can be verified that the history of the object has not been falsified by digitization.

Classification system as master narrative

The central focus of Finnegan’s article, when all is said and done, dwells on the FSA-OWI photo archive as a whole, which she terms “a rhetorical construction.” She declares that “[b]efore we critically engage the artifacts we discover in the archive, we need critically to engage the archive itself” (118). Trachtenberg’s essay, in which he deconstructs the history, concept, and rhetoric of the archive’s classification system, demonstrates that it is neither as factual or as transparent as its author Paul Vanderbilt claimed. As Trachtenberg shows in his sustained analysis, the line between the literal meaning of a photo and its subjective or connotative meaning is fuzzy and constantly shifting (52–56); moreover, language itself, the tool for describing the categories and subcategories of pictures in the classification system, is not neutral (56).

Per Trachtenberg, the original classification system put in place by Paul Vanderbilt in 1942 “represents diagrammatically a grand master study, a generative cultural myth: civilization begins in relation to ‘land’ and proceeds to build an increasingly complex society” (57). The organizational layout, Trachtenberg argues, and this I find especially fascinating, has a narrative sweep to it due in large part to the scripts (assignment instructions that read like thumbnail stories) that Roy Stryker gave his photographers, many of which read like paeans to America’s simpler past (58–64). For Vanderbilt, he saw the narrative of the archive on a larger scale, as a study of mankind, a strictly American, resilient Family of Man “avant la lettre” (62–63).

Thomas Cole, The Architect's Dream, 1840

 

As Finnegan learned, to find particular FSA-OWI photos, then, one had to be versed in the master narrative of civilization to which Western societies and their legal and political systems adhere, one that gives precedence to landowners and ultimately to the development of the land into cities with architectural monuments to human culture and achievement. This sense of progress can be seen in the early 19th-century paintings by the American artist Thomas Cole, for example—his Architect’s Dream and the series The Progress of Empire. Indeed, one can see the preference for those enfranchised by land and property in a portion of Vanderbilt’s classification system quoted by Trachtenberg:  under the main category “Houses and Living Conditions” is the subcategory “porches, yards, gardens, servants” (53). Thus photos of servants in the FSA-OWI collection, those who are not land or property owners but who are subordinate to those who are, are effectively dehumanized, just another architectural feature of daily living.

Pity the cataloger

The last section of Trachtenberg’s essay gets at the heart of the problem of visual literacy when it comes to documentary photographs, which can be thought of as both social records, thus factual, and at the same time artistic. Trachtenberg argues that the term “realism,” used by Stryker and others to describe the photographic project of the FSA-OWI, is so value-laden as to incorporate the narrative discussed above and therefore call the pictures” objectivity (status as factual documents) into question.

The lack of straightforward meaning of the photograph, while it may cause much consternation to the image cataloguer, is vital to acknowledge. Librarians, archivists, and curators do not simply provide access to information but to knowledge. Acknowledging ambiguity is a declaration of knowledge.

Bibliography

Barthes, Roland. “The Photographic Message.” Image, Music, Text. Roland

            Barthes. Trans. Stephen Heath. New York: Hill and Wang, 1977.

            15–31.

Conway, Paul. “Modes of Seeing: Digitized Photographic Archives and the

            Experienced User.” The American Archivist 73 (Fall/Winter 2010): 425–62.

Finnegan, Cara A. “What Is This a Picture of?: Some Thoughts on Images and

            Archives.” Rhetoric & Public Affairs 9.1 (Spring 2006): 116–23.

Kratochvil, Antonin and Michael Persson. “Photojournalism and Documentary

            Photography.” Nieman Reports (Fall 2001): 27–31.

Layne, Sara Shatford. “Subject Access to Art Images.” Introduction to Art Image

            Access: Tools, Standards, Strategies. Ed. Murtha Baca. Getty

            Publications, 2002.

Sandweiss, Martha A. “Image and Artifact: The Photograph as Evidence in the

            Digital Age.” The Journal of American History (June 2007): 193–202.

Shatford, Sara. “Analyzing the Subject of a Picture: A Theoretical Approach.”

            Cataloging & Classification Quarterly 6.3 (Spring 1986): 39–62.

Tibbo, Helen R. “Primarily History: Historians and the Search for Primary Source Materials.” 

            Proceedings of the 2nd ACM/IEEE-CS Joint Conference on Digital Libraries. 

            Portland, Ore. (2002): 1–10.

Trachtenberg, Alan. “From Image to Story: Reading the File.” Documenting America: 
           1935–1943. Eds. Carl Fleischhauer and Beverly W. Brannan. Berkeley, Los Angeles, 
           and London: Univ. of California Press, in association with the Library of Congress. 
           1988. 43–73. 

Providing Access to “Sensitive” Photographs: Archivists as Guardians of the Rights to Privacy

Providing Access to “Sensitive” Photographs: Archivists as Guardians of the Rights to Privacy

I was an intern at the Peabody Museum at Harvard when I was asked to participate in a viewing of some sensitive daguerreotypes. Not only sensitive in format, but in subject matter, these images are known as the Slave Daguerreotypes of Louis Agassiz. At the time, some scientists like Agassiz had theories about race, purporting that people of African descent were a different species of man. In order to evaluate and support these theories, slaves were forced to stand for photographic images showcasing their nude bodies, intending to display their differences from Caucasian peoples.

The images were beautiful in their technique and preserved condition, but disturbing as reminders of historical injustice. I was told by my supervisor that an artist in Europe had asked for permission to obtain copies of the daguerreotypes and use them in a show he hoped to put together on the topic of race. Although the subjects of the pictures would certainly be deceased by now, the museum denied this request on account of ethical concerns that the artist would be exploiting them for his own purposes of making a statement. The whole situation aimed a spotlight on the museum and began the discussion of whether the Peabody had the right to control access to the daguerreotypes in the first place, considering they were found in the museum in 1975, resembling what our textbook refers to as a “legacy collection” with incomplete documentation (Ritzenthaler, et al. 306).

The day that I was viewing the images came about as a result of a visiting lawyer preparing to speak about ethics at the university. She wanted to know how I reacted to seeing them, knowing the circumstances under which they were made. She asked me, very dramatically, if I wasn’t sickened and horrified, and how could we even have pictures like this?

I wanted to ask her in return: what else should we do with them? Certainly not sell them for a profit. Should we give them away? - To whom? And how could we ensure that they would be as well cared for, or protected from misuse? Should we instead destroy them entirely? I believe that route would be no different than attempting to erase slavery from the history books because it is too painful to read about. 

The SAA states in their privacy code of ethics:

“As appropriate, archivists place access restrictions on collections to ensure that privacy and confidentiality are maintained, particularly for individuals and groups who have no voice or role in collections’ creation, retention, or public use.  Archivists promote the respectful use of culturally sensitive materials in their care by encouraging researchers to consult with communities of origin, recognizing that privacy has both legal and cultural dimensions.”

I find this to be a bit of a blanket statement. It sounds very clear and direct, that archivists should be cautious and considerate when dealing with sensitive materials. However, the SAA does not provide answers to specific situations, and any good archivist should know each collection and institution will have unique cases. Aside from encouraging researchers to consult with experts and relevant communities when using collections, archivists should have a working knowledge of the current privacy laws.

Although the recent Visual Artists Rights Act (VARA) was created to protect the rights of the creative artist rather than the integrity of the subject, it also serves to prevent images from being manipulated by others. However, VARA has many loopholes concerning photographs, applying to a restricted category of visual artworks it covers only artistic photos created for exhibition after 1 June, 1991 (Ritzenthaler, et al. 312). According to a Harvard Law guide, VARA has limited rights and is subject to exclusions and waiver provisions that substantially erode its powers (Esworthy). Essentially, donors should be warned not to rely are VARA alone if they have specific worries about access to their photos.

Privacy laws do little to protect celebrities and public figures in the act of being photographed, so they are not going to do much more in protecting the images after they have been made. After a celebrity’s death, images of them under privacy restriction can be granted extensions. Celebrities also have the right to protect their likeness from use in a commercial exploitation without permission. Even after they die, celebrity estates may have control of their likeness for further protection (Nordhaus, 14).

With some exceptions, if no limit to privacy has been set by donors, most images lose their privacy restrictions upon the death of the person photographed. In many cases it may be unknown if the subject is still living and the archivist must do some detective work. In the example of the slave daguerreotypes, archivists can clearly surmise based on the time they were photographed, that none of the subjects are still living. However, given that they had no human rights to privacy when they were photographed, it does not seem respectful to take away privacy restrictions on the images now that they have died. The subjects being nude also raises ethical concerns, because these were not taken in an effort to be artistic. Scientific nudity - whatever that may be defined as - is looked upon with less concern, yet the daguerreotypes, although considered scientific by their creators, do not fit into this category today. 

Obscenity and pornography in photographs is not always clearly defined and prohibitive laws can vary by state. Images of child nudity are almost always considered obscene and providing access to them is a punishable offense. Adult nudity however, as mentioned above, may be approved if it can be considered artistic or scientific. Other images of adult nudity, perhaps of a personal nature in family collections, should be dealt with on a case by case basis with donor and legal consultation. Anthropological research is another frequent source of nudity in photographic collections. Informed consent from subjects should be obtained when documenting any sacred, private, or culturally sensitive material. As the textbook reminds us, “repositories should avoid causing cultural damage when possible” and take advantage of consultations whenever possible (Ritzenthaler, et al. 329).

An archivist can recruit help from experts, lawyers, and other relevant sources, but ultimately we are responsible for making a judgment about access and use for each collection. All of the advice I read for dealing with privacy restrictions seems to conclude that handling materials of even the slightest ambiguity comes down to informed opinion. In a society full of concrete rules, this may feel like a risky business model and cause outsiders to worry about our intentions, which brings me back to the visiting lawyer who was so concerned with the Peabody Museum’s possession of the slave daguerreotypes. I will rephrase my original questions to her and ask instead, “who else but an archivist is better suited to care for these images?”

We are the trained professionals and can offer the closest thing to a universal standard for privacy protection. Although we may not be experts of law, or even the material we have in our repositories, we are definitely the experts of how to care for collections and where we should go to ask questions when concerns for privacy are raised. I realize we are asking for our patrons and donors to trust our opinions and instincts, two very subjective qualities, but they should also be assured that they can trust our training in ethical responsibility.

References:

Esworthy, Cynthia. “A Guide to the Visual Artists Rights Act.” Harvard U, n.d. Web. Nov. 2013

Nordhaus, Jamie. “Celebrities’ Rights to Privacy: How Far Should the Paparazzi Be Allowed to Go?” The Review of Litigation 18.2 (1999): 286-315. Web. Nov. 2013.

Ritzenthaler, Vogt-O'Connor, Zinkham, Carnell, & Peterson. Photographs: Archival care and 

management. Chicago: Society of American Archivists, 2006. Print. 

“SAA Core Values Statement and Code of Ethics.” Society of American Archivists, May 2011. Web. Nov. 2013.

Digital Preservation

With the proliferation of born-digital photographs the concept of preservation has been redefined. Unlike traditional print photographs, which can be stored away in climate controlled spaces for long-term preservation, born-digital photographs require continual upkeep to ensure their integrity and authenticity. To someone who is not exactly tech-savvy this may not make much sense because they may think, "well what is the difference between storing photographs in boxes and storing them on hard drives? Both are physical mediums that store information and that must be protected from environmental hazards." Although this is true, it is important to recognize that the information stored within the two physical mediums is in completely different formats:analog and digital.

The preservation of analog photographs is well documented and understood. After all, that is what we have been working on for decades. Conversely, the preservation of digital photographs is a new area of study that has only recently begun to take shape.However, what is clear is that preserving digital photographs requires continual maintenance. This is due to the transitory nature of the digital environment; technology is constantly evolving. Thus, to counter obsolescence and preserve digital photographs for posterity, some archivists, in conjunction with photographers and companies such as Adobe, are trying to establish standards that will persist into the future.1 This is one way in which archivists can try and impose order on an otherwise unruly environment. Other possible solutions include migration, transferring files to new mediums when old ones become obsolete, and emulation, using software to mimic obsolete technology.2 Of these three solutions, archivists are most likely to favor the first one because it allows them to regain control, however it is difficult to develop standards that will remain relevant going into the future, especially in a digital environment. Thus, it is perhaps more important for archivists to pay attention to current technological developments instead of trying to dictate the future.

Despite this minor critique, it is reassuring to know that there are multiple solutions to the preservation issues raised by digital technology. If universal digital photograph preservation standards are not adopted in the future then at least migration and emulation are still viable alternatives. In any case, it is important for archivists to be flexible and optimistic. The problems that have resulted from digital technology pale in comparison to the wealth of benefits it has the potential to provide.

1. Jessica Bushey, "He Shoots, He Stores:New Photographic Practice in the Digital Age,
" Archivaria 65 (2008): 125 -149.
2. Elizabeth Shepard, "Digitizing a Photographic Collection in a Midsize Repository: A Case Study,"  Journal of Archival Organization 2(4) (2004):67 - 82.

Not my final post--just a comment: freezing a moment in time - photography's influence on painting

I just wanted to say that I've been thinking about the paintings of Edgar Degas all term—for how his practice of photography influenced his paintings, particularly his compositions and how he composes to create the impression of an instant frozen in time—not the universal forever of Old Master paintings.

In his family portrait of the Count Lepic and his daughters (the painting is called "Place de la Concorde"), instead of a unified group portrait, we see the three of them, plus the family dog, milling around the square, a big gaping hole in the center of the picture space, as well as space between each of the three portrait subjects. There's even some strange guy entering the picture space on the left—it appears as though Degas clicked the shutter before everyone had time to pose and look out at the photographer/artist and before the artist had time to shoo the guy out of the picture. The depiction of a moment in time, rather than the universal forever, is partly what makes the Degas so modern, as compared to, say, this Rubens.

"Do What U Want": The Work of Archives in the Age of Digital Reproduction

Yes, the title alludes to both Lady Gaga lyrics and Walter Benjamin.  The chorus of the Lady Gaga song referenced in the title is as follows: “You can’t stop my voice ‘cause you don’t own my life, but do what you want with my body.” Though clubgoers will probably not take notice, Gaga’s ironic play with the dichotomy of intellectual and physical property illustrates a growing problem with today’s society: as the physical and digital converge, the distinction between intellectual and physical property becomes a very blurred line.  Benjamin’s famous article “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” argued that the increasing ease of the reproducibility of art was changing the value of art itself, shifting the authority to define what makes “good art” from the bourgeoisie to the people.  This essay will provide examples of how this shift has been stifled by copyright and its abusers and ask what archives are doing to prevent (or propel) this abuse.

In the documentary Mexican Suitcase, the ownership of the newly uncovered Robert Capa photographs is briefly called into question.  The accidental owner, reluctant to immediately hand over the goods to the International Center of Photography (ICP), eventually gives in and donates Robert Capa’s negatives to the organization.  Why wouldn’t he give them in the first place though?  He did not take the photographs in the first place so he certainly doesn’t have any claim to them.  What right does Cornell Capa, his brother, have though?  Does he have a right to the images simply by virtue of being Robert’s next of kin?  I have faith that the ICP was the right decision in the end, if only because it is probably the best equipped to handle to the materials, but what worries me is the issue of copyright.

Copyright laws have evolved throughout the years to be more and more restrictive, and for whose benefit in this example?  Robert Capa, who has been dead for nearly 60 years?  What does he stand to gain from their posthumous licensing?  In fact, if not for the 1998 Copyright Term Extension Act and the formation of Magnum Photos and the ICP, Capa’s images of the Spanish Civil War would have already been considered public domain by the time they were found.  Through their transference to the ICP, the negatives will almost certainly retain their copyright status by virtue of some rather convoluted legislature well after the deaths of Robert Capa and anyone reading this.

 

Intellectual property rights are undoubtedly important.  They protect creators from having their work stolen commercially, and in theory, provide a space for creators to create while still making a living.  Somehow though, these legally granted rights have taken on a life of their own.  Rather than fostering creativity, intellectual property laws have historically stifled it.  Consider Daguerre’s English patent of his photographic process; the result of his shrewd attempt at squeezing money out of the English was a significant lack of English Daguerreotypes.  Meanwhile, French and American Daguerreotypists were able to practice their craft free from legislation.

Last week, part of our class discussion revolved around Sontag’s choice to not include the cited photographs in her essays from On Photography.  In an effort to hypothesize the logic behind the decision, we painted her as an elitist and posited that she was trying to prove her point about the connection between memory and image. A more likely cause is that it would have proven too difficult to obtain the myriad of permissions she would require to make here case.  This happened with a Carole Armstrong article featured in the journal October that critiqued Diane Arbus’ photography which apologized for its lack of Arbus images by stating that “[as] a condition of granting permission to reproduce the requested photographs, the estate wished to exercise censorship over the contents of the article.”  Even though Sontag’s work could be defensible as “fair use,” the threat alone of legal battles that might have ensued resulted in work that confusedly lacks critical evidence.

While the Mexican Suitcase and Sontag examples both deal with intellectual property that does fall under copyright, how many of the institutions we hope to work at hold materials whose copyrights have expired to the greener pastures of public domain.  Yet in spite of this, these institutions often have blanket policies for licensing all of their materials, regardless of a work’s copyright status.

I recently had a patron request an image for publication and had to turn them down upon examining the back of the photograph.  A copyright clause declared the owner of the photograph, taken in the 1890’s, as what is now Historic New England.  I shrugged and apologized to the researcher who, presented with a series of new hoops to jump through, selected a different (and probably inferior) photograph.  The following week, I came across a duplicate of the photograph with no copyright notice on the back.  Had the researcher presented me with the duplicate at the onset, I would have rightfully assumed it to be public domain and the researcher would have walked away happy.

This is a perfect example of the absurdity of copyright law, and also a good example of what Benjamin referred to as “the conquest of ubiquity.”  Because these photographs were mass produced, the notion of archival institutions having claim over a single copy will eventually become a moot point.  The digital age is making it even more difficult for works in the public domain to remain under the control of false copyright claims.  

We, as archivists, scoff at barriers to access while remaining complicit with unwarranted barriers to use.  Archivists need to come to terms with this broken copyright system or else become obsolete.  The answer is not to guard ourselves against false copyright claims by creating our own false copyright claims, but to instead fight back, encouraging donors to not only grant copyright with their donations, but also to dissolve these rights upon accession.  Generally speaking, if a publication distorted a fact cited from a collection, archivists would leave it up to historians to refute the misinformation.  Why then do archivists not find it unethical to throw themselves into the legal ring with questionable license fees?  The system is not going to be fixed by passivity, and archivists are in a strong position to help tilt the scales back in the direction of fair use and public domain.  So the next time a researcher inquires about licensing fees for a work squarely in the public domain, decline the money and politely inform them they can do what they want with the photo.  (You should probably discuss the idea with your boss first though!)

Bibliography

Armstrong, Carol. "Biology, Destiny, Photography: Difference According to Diane Arbus." October. 66 (1993): 29-54.

Benjamin, Walter, and J A. Underwood. The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction. London: Penguin, 2008.

Mazzone, Jason. Copyfraud and Other Abuses of Intellectual Property Law. Stanford, California: Stanford Law Books, an imprint of Stanford University Press, 2011.