Category: Art

A Court Did Not Rule that Uploading Works Terminates Copyright. But…

On April 14, Eric Garder, writing for the Hollywood Reporter, published a story under the headline: Court Rules Photographer Gave Up Exclusive Licensing Rights by Posting on Instagram. There is nothing technically wrong with that headline—and Gardner did not, I believe, misrepresent any facts in his article. But when I saw photographer Doug Menuez share this story on Facebook the other day, I had the same gut reaction that I bet a lot of visual artists and copyright watchers had. Those words “gave up” made me think, Great, some judge has actually ruled that posting an image on a social media account extinguishes all copyright in the work. (Yes, that is how the nerd in my head always talks.)

I noticed that copyright attorney Leslie Burns, who represents many photographers, bemoaned on Twitter the fact that this story is already being described as one in which uploading to Instagram et al automatically terminates copyrights. That is certainly not what the judge ruled in Sinclair v. Ziff-Davis and Mashable earlier this week. But there is still much to this story—a good news/bad news tale—that should be of great concern to copyright owners. 

The good news is that Judge Kimba M. Wood of the District Court for the Southern District of New York (SDNY) did not articulate any new opinions whatsoever with respect to copyright law. The bad news is that what happened to professional photographer Stephanie Sinclair is yet another reminder that the major tech platforms are predatory animals whose Terms of Service are toxic to creators. Here are the basics …

Sinclair, like many a visual artist needing recognition, posted her work on Instagram under a Public account. On March 16, 2016, Mashable published an article about women photographers and displayed Sinclair’s unlicensed photograph by means of embedding, using Instagram’s API by pointing to the file located on Instagram’s servers. Anyone who might want to interject that the “server test” protects Mashable, hold that thought.

The simple, unfortunate reality is that by uploading her work, the copyright owner “grant[s] to Instagram a non-exclusive, fully paid and royalty-free, transferable, sub-licensable, worldwide license to the Content that you post on or through [Instagram], subject to [Instagram’s] Privacy Policy.” In a nutshell, Sinclair, and every other creator uploading works to a Public account, grants Instagram this right to sub-license those works. 

In fact, as Terrica Carrington of Copyright Alliance notes, “These licenses, which are very similar for all the major platforms, are so broadly written that Instagram could, in theory, sub-license a visual work to any party for any use by any means, and even charge the sub-licensee money for it. We haven’t seen the platforms do anything this bold, and they might never do it because it would be bad PR, but the Terms of Service are written broadly enough to allow them to do it legally.”  

Of course none of us reads the Terms of Service (TOS), and for two very good reasons: first, because these agreements are epic and barely comprehensible (Instagram’s runs over 17,000 words); and 2) because opting out of social platforms is not necessarily a viable choice, especially for creators who need a certain amount of publicity to survive. (See what artist Dima Yarovinsky did with the Terms of Service contracts for seven of the most popular platforms.)

Remember that tech-utopian mantra that was popular a few years ago? It went something like, The problem for creators isn’t copyright, it’s obscurity. That was shorthand for the insidious proposition that social platforms provide free venues for creators to expose prospective consumers to their works. While this was/is true to an extent, many experienced creators and rights advocates also pointed out that free publicity channels aren’t worth much, if the same platforms create both motive and means for rampant, unlicensed use of works. 

Sinclair notes this rock-and-a-hard-place issue in her complaint, to which Judge Wood replies, “Unquestionably, Instagram’s dominance of photograph-and video-sharing social media, coupled with the expansive transfer of rights that Instagram demands from its users, means that Plaintiff’s dilemma is a real one. But by posting the Photograph to her public Instagram account, Plaintiff made her choice. This Court cannot release her from the agreement she made.”

As a practical matter, Sinclair’s untenable litigation is a cautionary tale in which the lesson may be that creators should never upload works they intend to protect onto these platforms. Indeed many photographers do adopt such a policy, but that can be a very difficult decision for many. To echo Sinclair’s point, it is a fine line between social platform as opportunity and social platform as a mandatory appendage one must accept in order operate in the contemporary market at all. File this under the heading the internet giveth, and the internet taketh away. 

So What About That Server Test?

As many readers already know, the server test (or server rule) generally says that when a user of an online platform embeds a link that causes a work (usually an image) to appear on the user’s page, this action does not infringe copyright. For more details see posts here, here, and here; but for a long time, the legal precedent has been that by “pointing” to a file on a server where the work is presumed to be legally copied, this action clearly does not infringe the reproduction right. 

But to any ordinary observer, a photograph on a web page would certainly seem to implicate the creator’s display right, no matter how the page editor caused that image to be displayed. And that’s pretty much what Judge Katherine Forrest held in Goldman v. Breitbart et al, also in the SDNY, in February 2018. In that case, several news organizations had embedded Justin Goldman’s photograph by pointing to Twitter’s servers, and Judge Forrest held that, “… when defendants caused the embedded Tweets to appear on their websites, their actions violated plaintiff’s exclusive display right; the fact that the image was hosted on a server owned and operated by an unrelated third party does not shield them from this result.”

So, although there was no reason for the server rule to have been addressed in regard to Sinclair’s complaint against Mashable, it is reasonable to assume that this defense would not have availed Mashable had it been raised. But, what a strange and messed-up situation we have for creators.

Instagram (and the other platforms) write TOS so broad that they could, technically, sub-license a work for any use without a creator’s permission. In practice, these licenses have, thus far, only applied in cases where the sub-licensee embeds images hosted on the first platform’s servers. But the question remains open (i.e. split among circuits) as to whether the server rule unjustly extinguishes the display right. 

So, you see where I’m going here:  the non-negotiable, labyrinthine contracts that creators must sign in order to use social platforms, weaken their copyrights by means of conduct that has been held to infringe under circumstances barely distinguishable from those in Sinclair’s complaint. Yes, the attorneys and legal experts see the distinction between a contract matter and one of case law under the copyright act. But the bottom line for the creators is that corporate interests are still ripping them off.     

Internet Archive Uses Pandemic to Justify Looting

When I borrow a sentiment from Ayn Rand, you can bet I gave the matter some serious thought. But looting is the one word that comes to mind in response to last week’s move by the Internet Archive to launch what they call the National Emergency Library. Believing the coronavirus pandemic provides both a moral and legal foundation for its decision, IA suddenly made over one million published works, including contemporary books in print, available to “borrow” worldwide. And not even on a one-reader-at-a-time basis like a library. They just opened the floodgates. 

This “emergency library” is neither moral nor legal nor even necessary to meet a need suddenly created by the pandemic. Yet what is most galling about the IA in this regard is the pretense to public service and largesse against the backdrop of a real emergency. One cannot be “generous” with the labor and property of others, particularly those who are, themselves, vulnerable to the economic hardship caused by crisis. That is the true spirit of looting.  

Most authors are barely insulated from financial difficulty in the best of times. Many writers you might imagine as quite well off, some who even have august words like Pulitzer next their names, are among those who (as the economic reporters describe) could not lay hands on $500 in an emergency. And now we are all in the midst of an emergency. It is of course too soon to predict what long-term results will follow the ebb of Covid-19, but it is certain that millions of people are suddenly out of work right now. And among those so affected are creative workers, who generally earn average to below-average incomes under normal circumstances.

The mean income for authors from writing alone is $20,300, and the supplemental work that many of them do may presently be foreclosed, as it is for millions of people in multiple business sectors. If anything, it would seem that this moment of forced solitude and inertia is the perfect time to promote buying (or legally borrowing) a few books, rather than infringing the copyrights on about 1.4 million. 

In practical terms, the coronavirus has not reduced online access to cheap or free books, but it did prompt several major publishers to address educational needs by making digital books and other resources freely available to schools and individual students. Hence, IA’s claim that its “emergency library” was launched, in part, to make works available for students is a dubious one at best. Instead, the move reeks of opportunism—a stunt to promote the misguided anti-copyright agenda of IA’s founder, Brewster Kahle. Moreover, it reeks of cynicism in a moment when tens of thousands of creative workers are suddenly unemployed.

Musical artists cannot play live venues. Theaters are shuttered. Motion picture and TV production is at a near standstill. Book authors cannot travel, host promotional events, or lecture. Photographers cannot travel or do shoots that involve human subjects or crew. And many journalists who are still able to work are risking their lives to do so. At the same time, members of the creative community have responded to recession and fear in positive and useful ways—donating money, streaming or broadcasting free living-room concerts, making first-run movies available online, streaming theater performances, hosting online art classes for children, and the list goes on.  

By contrast, it is very hard to see Internet Archive’s “emergency library” as anything other than anti-copyright evangelism. In part, this view is supported by the fact that the library was launched on such shaky legal ground, that only the milieu of a major crisis could obscure the organization’s flagrant disregard for authors. In its response last week, the Authors Guild wrote the following:

“IA has made far-fetched claims that it is protected by fair use, but an appellate court case last year squarely decided the issue against them, as we advised them it would. There is simply no basis in the law for scanning and making copies of entire books available to the public. Now, IA has gone further and stripped away the one-user-at-a-time limitation so that any number of readers can access any of 1.4 million books at any time through a couple clicks….”

There are multiple exceptions and carveouts in copyright law for libraries and archives, and there are historic precedents for national emergencies. But those exceptions have limits and conditions designed to balance public service with the authors’ right to earn revenue for their work through legal distribution systems. Specifically, the statutory carveouts do not even apply to archives like IA, which is presumably why they assert that the pandemic somehow allows them to make these books available under the doctrine of fair use. 

This unfounded legal theory is exemplary of the archive’s ideological opposition to copyright. Kahle & Co. are of course entitled to advocate any view they want, but to camouflage their agenda in the fog of a pandemic is unconscionable. More particularly, the Internet Archive should not be surprised if, after this emergency has passed, they find themselves on the losing end of a lawsuit. If for no other reason, it may be necessary to affirm that their appeal to “emergency powers” under fair use in this case is legally untenable.  

As I wrote once before, the Internet Archive can be a wonderful service when used within the constraints of legality. Having just finished writing a book myself, I will admit that my bibliography has at least a half-dozen citations to IA’s digitized books from the very early twentieth or mid-nineteenth century (i.e. in the public domain). Providing access to materials that are otherwise hard to find without a lot of time and expense is the best and highest purpose of a digital archive. Such repositories can be invaluable to authors who, as mentioned, have limited resources to invest in their research. But if, while providing a useful service, the same archive seeks to degrade the already tenuous market for books still under copyright, then the whole value proposition becomes a vicious cycle of self-destruction. Not unlike looting during an emergency. 

Allen v. Cooper: Justly Decided If Not Exactly Just

Professional creators following the case Allen v. Cooper were no doubt disappointed by the Supreme Court’s March 23 decision—a unanimous holding that the States (and/or their agents) are generally free to infringe copyrights with impunity. But perhaps authors of works should not to be entirely discouraged on this matter, because it seems clear from the opinions written that the Justices would have preferred if the law had led them to the opposite conclusion. Moreover, a path for legislative reform remains open.   

A Quick Recap

See post here, or read more extensively on the website of plaintiff Rick Allen. The short version is that Allen’s company Nautilus Productions filmed and photographed excavation and research work performed on Blackbeard’s flagship Queen Anne’s Revenge, which was discovered off the North Carolina coast in 1996. Subsequently, the state made unlicensed uses of Allen’s copyrighted materials, primarily online, and when Allen sued for infringement, North Carolina invoked its sovereign immunity under the Eleventh Amendment, which bars citizens or entities from bringing federal suits against the states or its agents. 

In 1990, Congress passed two laws, the Patent Remedy Act and the Copyright Remedy Clarification Act, both designed to abrogate state sovereign immunity specifically for patent and copyright claims where states are alleged to be the infringing parties. In 2015, North Carolina passed “Blackbeard’s Law,” which specifically lays claim to photographic and AV works documenting shipwreck material a “public record.” So, why didn’t Congress’s CRCA protect Allen’s copyrights in this case? Well …

The IP Clause, the Eleventh and the Fourteenth Amendment walk up to the bar …

As we all know, Article I of the Constitution grants Congress the authority to establish copyright and patent laws; and one rationale for that clause, as Madison noted in Federalist 43, was the assumption that the new nation would be best served by uniform (i.e. federal) laws for intellectual property. (In copyright practice this uniformity was not fully adopted until 1978, and then there’s the whole sound recordings morass, but Madison’s seminal hopes were succinctly clear.) 

At the same time, the prospect of erecting a federal court system was a sensitive matter among anti-Federalists, who were hardly sold on the prospect of union among the States in the first place, let alone allowing their State governments to be potentially sued in the new federal courts by citizens of other States. Thus, in response to just such a case arising, the Eleventh Amendment was passed in 1795 to affirm the principle of “state sovereign immunity,” already extant at the founding period.

Without trying to cram a history of sovereign immunity into this post, suffice to say that States are not generally subject to litigation in federal court but for a handful of exceptions, and most of these exceptions derive from the Fourteenth Amendment of 1868. Relevant to Allen v. Cooper, Section 1 of the Fourteenth affirms civil liberties to all Americans, and Section 5 affirms Congress’s authority to pass such laws as may be necessary to enforce Section 1. Thus, sovereign immunity is abrogated where a State’s conduct or law runs afoul of constitutionally protected rights. 

So, it might seem reasonable to assume that the Article I power of Congress to write copyright and patent laws, which secure the intellectual property rights of all U.S. citizens, would naturally fall into the scope of protections affirmed in the Fourteenth Amendment. “No state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any state deprive any person of life, liberty, or property without due process of law….” 

In fact, whether one views IP protections as grounded in natural rights or as purely utilitarian forms of property rights, the Fourteenth Amendment, combined with the Article I power, would seem to support Congress’s authority in 1990 to write the pair of laws that explicitly declared that sovereign immunity does not foreclose infringement claims brought by copyright and patent owners against the States. Alas, not so much.

A Very High Standard

Allen’s claim in this case rested on the premise that the 1990 CRCA abrogated the sovereign immunity of North Carolina; but unfortunately, the Supreme Court had already weighed this exact argument with respect to the CRCA’s sibling law, the Patent Reform Act. In the 1999 decision, in a case known as Florida Prepaid, the Court held that the Patent Reform Act did not abrogate sovereign immunity for two intertwined reasons. Article I powers alone are not sufficient grounds for Congress to circumvent sovereign immunity, and this can only be addressed by Section 5 of the Fourteenth Amendment where there is compelling evidence of a harm being intentionally caused by the State, and where no other remedies (i.e. due process) are available. 

In legal terms, the opinion states, “a Section 5 abrogation of sovereign immunity must be ‘congruent and proportional’ to the Fourteenth Amendment injury it seeks to remedy.” In practical terms that means if Congress wants to salvage the intent of the CRCA and/or the Patent Reform Act, they will need evidence, which proves that intentional infringement by State actors poses a significant threat to the interests and rights of authors and/or inventors. 

In reference to Florida Prepaid, the Kagan opinion reminds us, “Congress, we observed, ‘did not focus’ on intentional or reckless conduct; to the contrary, the legislative record suggested that ‘most state infringement was innocent or at worst negligent.’” Those data are not sufficient to circumvent the sovereign immunity. But that was then.

Especially with regard to works protected by copyright, digital technologies have changed the landscape considerably since 1990—even since 1999. Consequently, State actors (e.g. State universities) have both new means and new motives to infringe more frequently and more harmfully than the pre-digital age. Seemingly aware of these contemporary realities, the Supreme Court’s discussion of Allen v. Cooper connotes discontent with its unavoidable conclusion.

The Court Rules Justly But Hints Justice Is Not Served

The majority opinion written by Justice Kagan, and joined by Roberts, Alito, Gorsuch, Sotomayor, and Kavanaugh, with Thomas, Breyer, and Ginsburg concurring, was bound by precedent, namely Florida Prepaid. Allen’s appeal to the CRCA could not hope to overcome the principle of stare decisis, let alone in a matter that sets so high and precise a bar for setting aside states’ rights. Nevertheless, the opinions of the Justices not only present a roadmap that Congress might follow to seal the sovereign immunity loophole for copyright (and patent) owners, it practically calls upon Congress to do so. The Kagan opinion asks…

“All this raises the question:  When does the Fourteenth Amendment care about copyright infringement? Sometimes, no doubt. Copyrights are a form of property. And the Fourteenth Amendment bars the States from “depriv[ing]’ a person of property ‘without due process of law.’ … So an infringement must be intentional, or at least reckless, to come within the reach of the Due Process Clause.” (citations omitted)

Then, in a passage that all but elbows the IP Subcommittee in the ribs …

“Congress likely did not appreciate the importance of linking the scope of its abrogation to the redress or prevention of unconstitutional injuries—and of creating a legislative record to back up that connection. But going forward, Congress will know these rules. And under them, if it detects violations of due process, then it may enact a proportionate response. That kind of tailored statute can effectively stop States from behaving as copyright pirates. Even while respecting constitutional limits, it can bring digital Blackbeards to justice.”

This less than subtle overture to the legislature was one of two points of moderate dissent by Justice Thomas, whose concurring opinion admonished the Court to refrain from advising Congress on the authorship of future legislation. But writing almost the opposite view, the concurring opinion by Justice Breyer, and joined by Justice Ginsburg, laments the unavoidable conclusion necessitated by law, if not by principle. “That our sovereign-immunity precedents can be said to call for so uncertain a voyage suggests that something is amiss,” the Breyer opinion declares. 

Amiss indeed. From the moment Madison and Pinckney drafted the IP Clause, it cannot have been imagined, let alone desired, that the individual States would be left free to appropriate intellectual property from individual citizens. After all, it was a State legislature, in the Massachusetts copyright law of 1786, that declared, “As the principal encouragement such persons can have to make great and beneficial exertions of this nature, must exist in the legal security of the fruits of their study and industry to themselves, and as such security is one of the natural rights of all men, there being no property more peculiarly a man’s own than that which is produced by the labour of his mind.”