It’s unlikely that many individuals set out to become cultural icons – known throughout the land as a person of substance, revered for the quality of their artistic (or other) contribution. Indeed, unless you are a cultural icon it’s hard to gauge whether it is possible to know you are one, when you are. But you’d think that one thing every cultural icon would have a handle on is how they would like their work to be dealt with after they’re gone. Having laboured, possibly for love, money, or both, to create the body of work that has earned them international respect, you’d expect a tremendous sense of pride or accomplishment enshrining such a legacy. But when you’re no longer around, who steps in to own or control that legacy?
Does it belong to your family, to the other signatories on the contracts you signed, or is the answer more obtuse? If someone has created something in the public domain, should that render their work and their personal life as the property of the entire human race? Should an artist, by legal rights, be subjected to public scrutiny; praised and condemned by legions of academics, journalists, ‘cultural commentators’, and anyone else with an opinion, picking over every private moment of their lives in order to better understand and put into context the fruits of their labour, for evermore, or at least until the world gets bored hearing about them?
Stephen James Joyce, grandson of late literary legend James Joyce, doesn’t think so. As Joyce’s sole heir and controller of his estate, Stephen James Joyce has had a fair share of run-ins with those wishing quote from his grandfather’s works. Joyce junior described such types, especially the academics, as vultures. “[They are] people who want to brand this great work with their mark. I don’t accept that,” he said.
Should cultural icons and their work be up for grabs, and if so, does it matter by whom?
One of the most famous examples is that of an image of South American guerrilla leader Che Guevara taken by Alberta Korda. Following an incident where Korda unwittingly handed over a copy of the photograph to Italian publisher Giangiacomo Feltrinelli, the image appeared on everything from T-shirts to table mats as Feltrinelli milked posthumous public affection for Guevara after his assassination. Korda turned a blind eye for many years although he resented the image being used to promote products or lifestyles of which Guevara himself would almost certainly have reproved. Eventually in 2001, a year before he died, Korda felt compelled to act when his Guevara image was used by Smirnoff to promote an alcoholic beverage – Che was tea total. Korda won a lawsuit to prevent Smirnoff using the image, as well as securing an undisclosed financial settlement. Hot on the heels of Korda’s success in the British courts, Guevara’s descendants, led by his daughter Aleida, set out to claim a share of monies made from publication of the original image, and to prevent further usage without their permission. In 2003 Aleida Guevara issued a demand for over 1 million EUROS compensation from press freedom organization Reporters Without Borders for allegedly misusing the image. Some speculated the Cuban government was behind Aleida Guevara’s actions, but the illustration stands. Who owns Che and his cultural legacy?
Similar conflict arose in the case of John Steinbeck’s children, who took publishing house Penguin and Steinbeck’s widow (from his second marriage) to trial over the ownership and copyright of his literary estate (including classics Of Mice and Men and Cannery Row). The kids successfully argued it was they who should retain copyright control because agreements made with Penguin early in Steinbeck’s career were signed before the author could have possibly imaged how significant his written contribution would become. The judge decided Steinbeck’s descendants were best qualified to represent his estate. But one could also argue that an international publishing house such as Penguin was equally suited to the task, perhaps even more competent in ensuring Steinbeck’s visibility and access for future generations. After all, it’s in their commercial interests to ensure they are.
For all Stephen James Joyce’s passionate disregard for the role of academics, is it really desirable that he should be able to prevent others from making reference to his grandfather’s masterpieces, or halting performances because he doesn’t like the way a writer or director has adapted a Joyce play, as he has done in the past? It’s tempting to ask, ‘Is this what we want?’ And perhaps more to the point, is it what the icon in question would have wanted?
Today, deceased cultural icons are far more than even the grandiose term suggests. They survive as living brands with the potential to make whoever controls and exploits their works and their image extremely rich. While we’ll never be sure of their wishes after death, in fact, because of it, laying the land of a legacy is all important. If you suspect you might be heading towards cultural icon status, you owe it to those you love to make exacting (and legally binding) arrangements for what happens to your estate when you’re gone.
