Lesson Plan

They asked me what the gloaming was,
Eyes like kerosene lamps
Concrete angels mossed over in the graveyard,
Last coercions of a fruit about to fall
From its branch to the frost,
A glass held to the ear, the roar
Of an ocean in its shell?

I can’t tell them how it contains
The strains of dual faith,
Benjamin’s dialectical image, the thought
That “every epoch dreams the one that follows it,”
In the words of Michelet;
The way
“Give me Liberty, or give me death”
Rings in our ears even when
Ear-witnesses couldn’t remember
What Patrick Henry said.

But patriotism is all
These children are forced to recall, so
How could I explain any other way
When their little hands were clenched
Around patterned pencils,
Lined notebooks at the ready,
Miss Brown’s framework
Stenciled firmly on their foreheads?

Kate Hogan is a recent transfer to Binghamton University from Broome Community College. She has lived many years in the Southern Tier of New York,  and is pursuing her undergraduate degree.

Feeding the Starving Artist

             Shakespeare may have been a little quick when he unceremoniously wrote, “The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.”  Had Shakespeare been around today he just may have wanted to hear what we have to say first, as we take the bold step of trying to “feed” the “starving artist.”  Now that we have your attention, it is our intent in this series of articles to provide artists with resources to ease the contract process, protect the artistic product, and maybe in the end make art profitable.

The first of our goals after recognizing the issues that artists face on a daily basis was to take the guess work out of contracts involving the display, production, and exhibition of art.  Such contracts are not limited to the display of gallery work, but can be applied to film production, performance dance, and writing.  Some of the most important decisions regarding works of art are made at the contract stage, before anything is ever displayed or sold.  Contracts, be they gallery, publishing, or film production contracts, not only capture both parties’ (i.e., gallery owner and artists) understanding of the agreement, but also protect the rights of the artist.  It is easy for an artist just starting out to believe that his or her bargaining abilities are limited due to their possible perceived obscurity in the art community at large.  However, with basic contract knowledge and maneuvering, artists can help to ensure that they are getting the best possible deal with the biggest potential pay-off.

 While some artists do not care to think about their work in monetary terms, at the end of the day even those committed to “the work” have to be able to create “the work.”  It is our belief that with the assistance of legal concepts, artists do not have to sacrifice anything in the way of commitment while making sure they are getting what they deserve.  Contracts that clearly and explicitly provide the basic rights of parties, the payment terms, promotion and advertisement, and selling strategies can go a long way to not only protect the artist and a promoter (i.e., publisher, gallery owner, film studio, etc.), but also show the art community that no one can take advantage of you, the artist.  

With respect to your work as a whole, what you don’t know can hurt you, both in terms of protecting your work and in terms of infringing on the rights of others. So it’s important to know more than how galleries and forums and performance centers work, and how not to be ripped off in contracts to show your work or have it performed. 

Protecting your work and yourself from claims of infringement by other artists is the foundation for the other of our goals in setting up our legal department.  Information and guidance with respect to such issues will help inform and advise you, the artist, about protecting your rights and about respecting the rights of others who came before you. 

In future columns, we will be discussing the copyright law ― both in the U.S. and in other countries ― and the limits of fair use in the copyright law. We will also be discussing the laws of privacy and publicity.

For now, it will be helpful to understand that property, in general, comes in three flavors: real property, personal property, and intellectual property. Real property covers land and things affixed to the land, like your house, your studio, your shed, your factory. Personal property covers tangible things that are also movable, like your clothing, your computer, your tools and instruments, your artist supplies. Finally, intellectual property covers things that come out of your head. And that’s where we come in. 

All three types of property have attributes in common. For example, you can transfer property that you own. We have different words to describe transfers, but the concept is the same for all three types of property. In real estate, a house, for example, is “sold” and ownership rights are conveyed by means of a “deed.” In personal property, goods are also “sold” with a “bill of sale.” In intellectual property, however, rights to your works can be “assigned.”

With all three types of property, the owner may want to own the land or the car or the music, but allow someone else to use it. For real estate, the terms we use are “rent” or “lease.” For personal property, the terms are “lend” or “rent” or “lease.” But for intellectual property, we say the work is “licensed.”

 There is a bit more to this subject, so we will be discussing it in future columns, as well as other subjects, such as:

 • registering your work in the U.S. Copyright Office and why to do that

• copyright notices

• parodies

• derivative works

• public domain

• duration of copyright rights

• co-ownership

• the rights of privacy and publicity

• copyright infringement

• actual vs. statutory damages for copyright infringement, and

• other topics that concern creators of artistic works.

 We look forward to visiting you every issue and, of course, welcome your questions and comments.

Mark Levy & Ryan Miosek are attorneys with the Binghamton-based law firm of Hinman Howard and Kattell. They specialize in trademarks, copyrights, and the general protection of intellectual property. You can telephone Ryan Miosek at (607) 231-6804 and Mark Levy at (607) 231-6991, or contact them by e-mail at rmiosek@hhk.com and mlevy@hhk.com.

The Bride

You could read Ruskin all day to me about sesame clouds
and the appearance of linen on sprawling walkways.
Pouring your stiff, bright eyes into the avenue
would be one way, and staying on the phone while drawing
a pink-splattered mist covered around an eggshell
would be another. You could heat rice and recite Faust.
Batter an eyelash until the fringe resembled small turf.
There we shall play, like ponies on green banks, all day.

You could induce a train rhythm, one that set me back
a ways, having a vague peripheral hint of horticulture—
the cornice of flower water, the snail horn sandwiched
in air. You could pull the covers over the ocean in bed,
and bring me soup, deigning to peak at my hook lip,
removing the vestige of flint from my dwarfish cap.
You could sit, like a woman, dainty in a peach atrium,
a computer on her lap, beckoning with the back of her head. 

 José Raul Capablanca

It wasn’t always like this.
Speaking, but not speaking.
Once, it was different.
Time with its résumé.
I can’t say who read it.
Or why they couldn’t have.
But so it was.
Things changed.
And thinned out.
Toasts were empty.
Linen was heavy.
And the meals,
wherever meals there were,
felt false even if filling.
They were often filling.
But they were also often not.
People put themselves onwards.
Onwards became old.
One time someone would look back
and find they had not seen a thing.
So they resumed sleep.
In the purple garden,
a moon clipped the hedge
for the dumb couple
out of respect for insurance.
A chalice came from the faucet.
In the sink, there were newsmen
and newsheadlines that vanished.
No one spoke of chalk.
No one aroused dust.
Only spilled ink filled the wash.
And that was accidental procedure.
Soon men arose in graves.
The grass fell like a blanket.
Neat and orderly and set that way.
The will read: Let there be pieces of the valley
for all men, but somewhere there wasn’t.
Until there was. This followed
for a few years, and I grew tiresome,
and irksome, and shot glances
when I had nothing to shoot at
or shoot for. I suspended the routine.
I ate breakfast and dreamed of a rodeo.
I even began with matins in the morning.
And dovetailing, always a hobby,
replaced my love of tsunamis,
artworks chilled by colorists.
Oblong expressions of medicine
and cosmetics of Eastern wisdom.
There was no wisdom. There was no sun.
Only wizened streets, with exposed feet.
And the socks of the trees were left there.
And the bikes were locked with expense.
And the doors became like records
of all the people that had lived there.
Once I tried to reach you at the hotel,
but longing came, with its lascivious
stockings and one thing became another.
Columns were sure-footed. Anger was paid.
Skies were ordered. Horns were dulcified.
Smoke went back to its topical allusions.
The tropics spun out from the webbing.
A small plane rode across my sleep
and in it I left, having no time for words,
figuring the whole rest of the trip
a solo concerto. I didn’t know what that
meant but it occurred. There was rain.
It was light. It turned out to be enough. Then.

Adam Fitzgerald is a graduate student at Columbia University. He is a minor expert on Zoroastrian studies. He lives in New York City with his wife and two children, and a pet chimp named Oleander.