No perfect storm
1
THINK of a product(ion) — a book or poem, a movie or song, a painting or sculpture — as a ‘text’: something tangible that can be unpicked, researched and, as such, the strands of meaning interpreted.
To whom does a text of importance truly belong? Is the use of it and its legacy the prerogative of its creator, the person(s) who brought to life something out of nothing? Or does it belong to its audience and the inheritors?
One is tempted to immediately reply ‘the former’ — that’s why copyright and patent laws exist. But if only the world could so neatly fit into either/or boxes.
Karachi’s Indus Valley School of Art and Architecture is currently holding an exhibition of alumnus Asim Butt’s (d. 2010) “early works as a student [...] where he was constantly experimenting [...]. This is evident from works that appear preparatory [...], probably ripped out of larger final works”.
Does genius belong to its creator, or to posterity?
The key words in the description above from the IVS invite are: “ripped out of larger final works”. I wonder whether he would have been sanguine with the display and sale of work that he chose not to exhibit. Surely, the creator of any text must be afforded the right and respect to let remain hidden from the public discourse that which they chose to leave out. Would Asim have considered cannibalism of sorts the exposure of his very private journey to art?
‘Perfect storms’ arise from an unpredictable and often unlikely confluence of factors. What I’m writing about is the opposite. Described here is an all-too-common, and hugely tricky, predicament that applies — overwhelmingly, posthumously — to so many. Does genius belong to its creator, or to posterity? When a text is considered of enough influence to merit a place in the ‘sum of human knowledge’, is not humanity at large, then, the rightful heir?
Delineate, here, between what the creator of a text themselves chose to not put on (or remove from) the public record, and what may have long remained undiscovered. There is a difference: the first is deliberate; the second is happenstance.
A parallel case, on a much larger scale, is also playing out these days. On Sept 1, The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power premiered on Amazon Prime, to be devoured by 25 million viewers (according to Amazon) during the first 24 hours. But there is much concern amongst those that care about Tolkien’s legacy. The series is almost exclusively based on just a few dozen pages in just one of the appendices of the books, meaning (to quote Michael D.C. Drout in the New York Times) “almost the entire plot [...] has been created by Amazon Studios’ writers and showrunners [...]. Is it fair [...] to build franchises from their works without their knowledge or permission?”
Tolkien was fiercely protective of his work. He sold film rights only when absolutely forced to by a tax bill. The television rights were sold to Amazon by his inheritors. And the problem is encountered (so to speak) not just by the departed: Drout, a co-editor of Tolkien Studies and chair of the English Department at Wheaton College in the US, cites the cannibalisation of the work of George R. R. Martin and J. K. Rowling, even though the creators of these texts are alive and, in the case of Rowling, were involved to some extent in the conversion to visual media.
The world has through technology or private drafts or notebooks or so many other means discovered what artists of critical influence chose to leave out of their finished oeuvres. Prince chronicled through music a host of his innermost musings, but kept them private. After his death, dozens were found locked in vaults and bootlegged; many are now in the public domain. Would he be aghast? It may not sit well with Ghalib that verses and strands of inquiry he relegated to the bin are now the subject of meticulous scrutiny and publication.
But, such invasive research plays a part in understanding the creative process: the trials, frustrations, and endless revisions that underpin any text. This enriches not just the sum of human knowledge, but also keeps alive the remarkable talent that produced it.
So, who is the rightful proprietor? Does, in the end, the legacy outstrip its creator, the finished whole becoming more than the sum of its parts, the text eclipsing the man? And if that is the case, what is there to prevent it from being prostituted or defiled? As in the case of Tolkien, and many others, including Michael Jackson, familial inheritors do benefit monetarily, even if prompted by altruistic motives.
Should genius be respected and allowed to keep its secrets? Or be put under the unforgiving microscope of research for what good it may do? Would that easy answers were forthcoming.
The writer is a journalist and anthropologist studying media, culture, and religion.
Published in Dawn, September 13th, 2022
