In its current iteration, copyright law gives us content consumers a right that we’ve internalized so thoroughly that most people exercise it without noticing. It’s what lets you sell a pile of books during a stoop sale, haul in a stack of old records to trade for store credit, or lend a CD to a friend. It’s called “first sale doctrine,” and it means, simply, that while only the owner of a copyright has the right make the initial sale of each particular copy of a work, once that sale’s complete, the new owner of that copy can do almost anything she wants with it. Sell it, lend it, rip it up—it’s all allowed.
That’s not necessarily true for digital works, for reasons both technical and financial. And as scholars and advocates look at reforming copyright law, updating the first sale doctrine could be one of the more contentious issues.
In a new white paper, Sherwin Siy, vice president of legal affairs at Public Knowledge, a DC-based digital rights group that “promotes creativity through balanced copyright,” describes the problem of digital first sale in simple, straightforward language—a rare treat in copyright land. The problems and policies this paper lays out won’t be new to copyright nerds, but it’s unusual in its attempt to make this issue legible to the public as an issue of basic personal property, rather than an obscure, technology-driven question.
“I think Larry Lessig and other people about a decade ago did a fantastic job to get people to understand that there are speech issues tied up in copyright,” he says. “I want to get people understand that there are personal property rights issues involved in this, too.”
In other words, he’s trying to tell the world what it has to lose. Right now, first sale doctrine means it’s possible to own a copy of a work that someone else created. But that could change in the future.
“As more and more media is born digital…the idea that no one can ever actually ‘distribute’ a digital file without reproducing it can reap big rewards for copyright holders,” he writes in the paper. “When CDs are as obsolete as 8 tracks, and if there’s no physical media on the market, then there will never be sales of used media. No more used book stores. No more second-hand music shops. You would have to buy everything from the original producer. In light of this, copyright holders have every incentive to ensure that the law interprets any digital transfer as a reproduction and not a distribution.”
But judges have interpreted the law, as currently written, to say that digital transfers are reproductions—illegal copy. Extrapolating forward from this principle, though, its possible to imagine a radically different media market than the one that now exists. Siy’s paper argues for a rethinking of the law that would preserve a consumer’s rights to own and resell copies of art, software, music, and written work, even if they’re born digital.
Innovators that have tried to work within the current law to exercise those rights so far have not done well in court: In March, for instance, New York district judge Richard Sullivan sided with Columbia Records against a company called ReDigi, a resale marketplace for unwanted digital music files, when he declined to apply first sale rights broadly to digital music. ReDigi promises that, at the end of a sale made through its site, the seller will no longer have a copy of the song on her computer. But that didn’t matter. “The fact that a file has moved from one material object—the user’s computer—to another—the ReDigi server—means that a reproduction has occurred,” Sullivan wrote. Copy made; copyright violated, no matter the intention.
But every time you use a digital media, your computer creates copies—temporary ones, usually. Transferring an mp3 or an ebook to a new owner necessarily means making a copy of the file.