File sharing, a Grecian urn and art

I feel a lengthy essay about Scientology brewing in the near future, a la this post, and probably focused specifically on St. Petersburg Times’ series of stories on the church, a religion — or something — based, like Mormonism and the rest, on the writings of a mere man, and a decidedly maniacal and self-ingratiating one at that. But that will be for another day, or, perhaps, for another hour in this day. We will see.

For now, I wanted to speak briefly on art. I have spent a little time recently modifying a few entries on Wikipedia, namely a woefully incomplete list of authors, which, if you can believe it, did not include Thomas Wolfe, one of the great American writers of the 20th century, nor William Styron, author of the book, turned movie, “Sophie’s Choice,” and the historical-fiction work, “The Confessions of Nat Turner.” (The question has come up on occasion, most memorably by Dr. Paul Anderson, my Civil War professor at Clemson University, about whether William is my kin. The votes out, but I would happily accept that ancestrial connection if it were the case.)

File sharing, or the transmission of music, videos, documents, programs or other files over the Internet, if we narrow it down to music or movies, is really nothing more than the exchange of art for free. Record companies, of course, seem to have made headlines the most for their attempts to quell such activity, with or without hearing the opinions of the artists they represent. For a good article on the topic, see here. Understandably, artists of any medium tend to feel a bit slighted when their works are copies and distributed among the masses as if its creation took no effort whatsoever and as if the works were made without tireless, sometimes agonizing hours of recording and sampling. Artists like Metallica, which has in the past stood firmly behind the record industry’s attempted crackdowns, have at once slighted their own fans by standing behind the towering companies, who, consequently, pass along very little, if any, record sale revenue to the artists. Most artists have to “make their bones” — and their green — on the arduous concert trail.

Music is art. So are films. One could even argue that computer programs have definite artistic elements. When I write a song or a poem (I do this one very little because my meager attempts usually end in disappointment or frustration) or a newspaper column, it immediately upon its completion falls under U.S. copyright protection, whether I physically file paperwork in Washington or not. All music created under major record labels have that innate protection, plus additional legal protection from being copied or distributed. While it’s understood that major artists receive a two-fold benefit from their craft (making money and doing something they love for a living), artists also must understand, (Radiohead would be an example), that in this digital era, music, once its recorded in whatever fashion, becomes susceptible to dissemination. The millions of videos on YouTube showing fans playing the songs of the artists they love attest to this fact. For those not familiar with Radiohead’s album, “In Rainbows,” it was distributed free of charge (or whatever amount fans felt appropriate) in the weeks leading up to its official release in stores. I couldn’t with a clear conscious get it for free since it was so graciously offered to us, so I downloaded it for $5.

Record companies have a clear dog in the file-sharing hunt, but their purpose is singular, to make money, while the nobler artists out there seek to create art first and foremost, and if they can get paid for it, all the better. Most artists create because it flows out of them. They can’t not create. It’s in their bones as its in mine.

I recently reread John Keats’ “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” where Keats grapples with what must have been happening in the scene depicted on the urn. I regret that I only have time to briefly mention the poem, but here are a few words about it and the urn it depicts:

The first four stanzas are filled questions about the scene and the final stanza climaxes with the exclamation: “Cold Pastoral!” One can very well picture the author throwing his up his hands almost in frustration about this “tease” failing to be forthcoming with the full story about what’s taking place. In this first stanza, Keats throws out a wave of questions, which I think, were we to find the answers, would explain the meaning behind nearly every piece of music or painting in history:

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

And this is the essence of art: the stories of struggle, of escape, of mad pursuits, of wild ecstasy. In other words, the millions of pieces of art created through the generations are a million answers to one question: What does it mean to be human? Answers, painful or joyous as they may be, more often than not, come without the rewards of money or recognition.