Illustrator Raymond Biesinger has experienced a range of good and bad deeds from honest and not-so-trustworthy clients and non-clients. But the one act of misanthropy that bugs him the most is being ripped off. It rattled him enough to write a book about what to do when your creative property has been borrowed, stolen or otherwise misappropriated. In 9 Times My Work Has Been Ripped Off (Drawn & Quarterly), Biesinger revisits some of the most unforgettable—and, at times, absurd—instances that have occurred during his 20-year career. We spoke about these charming memoir-cum-cautionary tales.
What triggered you to write this “memoir”? Was it gnawing at you? Or is it kind of a cautionary service book?
The trigger wasn’t so much a “gnawing” as a “bursting” that happened in the middle of some very heated discussions with an infringer about a very obvious infringement. They thought the unauthorized use of my work wasn’t worth anything, financially. I thought it was, and that if they weren’t willing to pay me, I could make that money more easily by telling our story and selling it as an illustrated pamphlet. Eventually, they changed their mind about the value of the work, so I didn’t have to make that pamphlet.
A few years later, though, I did make this book. And it tries to educate rather than ridicule or shame any specific organization.
Were you truly surprised or angered that your work was violated, given the common practices of the illustration field to latch onto existing styles?
Absolutely—my work feels like an extension of myself; whatever happens to it can get emotional. But the book’s main thrust isn’t about style. It glances it, yes, but it very deliberately focuses on wage theft and the value of creative labor.
Do you believe that being ripped off is just part of the coming-of-age process?
I think some number of ripoffs are inevitable, but I don’t buy the idea that there is a linear path that goes straight from “getting big” to “getting ripped.” I’ve been chatting with a New York photographer named Brittany Wright who focuses on food photography, and she’s great at what she does and has a unique set of themes she’s exploring—gradations of ripeness, gradations of cooked-ness, this kind of thing. She isn’t big or hyped or established. I like what she does.
But her work has been identified by meme-makers and wellness influencers as incredibly useful. She’s written very eloquently on her Substack about it, and how specific images of hers have been used (without authorization) in memes literally thousands of times in that context. I recommend reading what her work has gone through and what she’s had to do about it. What could’ve (and should’ve) been a handful of pieces that she could’ve earned from for years (e.g., print sales, usage rights, etc.) are being debased by ubiquity and made unserious by bizarre unauthorized usages. It’s a kind of hell most more popular image-makers will never experience. I haven’t experienced anything close to that. What she’s gone through makes me incredibly angry.
And then there’s how AI has been used to “launder” the copyright off of some of her images, but that’s a whole other story.
Who are the worst culprits in the stories you tell?
I think there’s a special place in hell reserved for governments that rip off their own citizens’ creative work.
Years ago, I co-authored a book called Borrowed Design, which, among other IP offenses, showed how influence overrides theft at times. Where do you draw the line regarding inspiration?
I should read that book.
I think it’s a wobbly line that shifts daily. Do I have enough time to examine a rip? Do I have enough time to defend against it? Is my bank account empty? Is it full? How big is the infringer? Is the rip for profit? Is it just a style thing or is it a direct usage? Am I feeling low? Am I feeling good? Am I close to the person who did it? Am I far from them? What’s it in service of? Is it 2015 or 2025? As much as I’d like there to be a defined line, I can’t see one.
Has being ripped off nine (and possibly more) times convinced you to change your own aesthetic output?
I’d like to think not, but when I look at what I gravitate towards, it’s work that would be incredibly hard to “want” to copy. Work that’s incredibly specific to a time and place or idea, work that’s covered in information that would possibly not be useful in any context other than the one it has been made for. Maybe that’s a defense mechanism after 20 years of dealing with this kind of thing. But maybe it’s just what my chromosomes have told me to do.
How do you feel about AI “borrowing” and reimagining other artists and designers’ work? And do you see this as compromising your approach even more?
I don’t like it at all. Big tech used our work to create this thing, and then very quickly started undermining us with it. In the words of Cory Doctorow: “The only reason they’re doing this—this is a great tragedy—is not because there is a huge market opportunity in pauperizing commercial illustrators, it is that it’s an exemplary opportunity. It’s not that the market will return their investment, it’s that it will be a very visible example of what you can do with OpenAI. It’s a convincer.”
He’s one of the few tech enthusiasts and critics I’ve encountered who’ve started piecing together how the illustration world has been used by big tech in more than a few ways. Molly Crabapple has also started putting the visual-art-AI-labor puzzle together in a way that others haven’t.
How does this compromise my approach? Well, commission values and frequencies are definitely dwindling. I’m occasionally being laid low by the pessimism most illustrators seem to have about the here and now. I have found a few niches, though, that the current iteration of generative AI can’t seem to get into. I’ll focus on those niches and keep alert to what’s going on outside of them.
Ultimately, what do you want the reader to take away?
That the same creativity they use to make what they make can be applied to defending themselves in a sometimes hostile world.
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