A Call to Call off the Witch Hunts

Artists steal. That quote, by the way, “Good artists copy, great artists steal”—stolen. Art is measured in periods — as in “that time we all did the same thing, and it was pretty cool”—not people. We all know about Bob Dylan’s unapologetically lifted melodies and lyrics, but no one is lining up to take away his crown. We’ve been“stealing” since we found some caves to paint on, and frankly, it’s a little arrogant to think that we’re suddenly so original now.

A designer who says they have never copied anything is lying—if not to you, at least to themselves. Despite any noble intentions, subconsciously: you’re influenced. I’ll say it: I’ve copied other peoples work. It’s how I learn. When a student asks how to do something, we tell them to copy it. It’s how we teach. Humans didn’t evolve making something from nothing. We evolved by building on each other. We find materials, we use tools, we repurpose old ideas and apply them to new problems. We merge our ideas with the one thing that inspired it. Layering old and new; obscure and obvious, over and over until the originals are unrecognizable. We emerge confident in an original repurposing, but it remains naïve to say it came from nothing.

A really cool thing happens when you copy other artists: you find your voice. To copy someone else’s work is just trying on a style to see if it fits. It was obviously wasn’t tailored for you, so it’s not going to be perfect, but you get a pretty good idea of your size. You take the things that you love, and build on them until they’re uniquely you. You find a combination of hundreds of artists you admire, curated by the taste you inherently have (the same taste that made you want to be a designer in the first place) that fits together with you—your personality, your experiences, your values (and hopefully a little je-ne-sais-quoi)—that culminate to become your voice. When you find it, it’s yours. It is no longer layers of other artists, it’s uniquely you. You can watch other people try it on, but we can all see where it’s loose.

Instead of clenching white knuckle to your one insignificant (sorry, but we are talking about all of design ever here, get over yourself) slice of design, you can use your voice to help other designers find theirs. Let them try it on. Let them keep the tiny pieces that fit them, they’re not going to keep the whole thing. Loosening your grip on any one approach, passing it back and forth and letting it evolve, consistently serves you, your work, and your clients better. And then, on the very rare occasion, when you really find something significant, and original, you can merge it with the state of the design. Embrace being a part of the evolution. Inject a piece of yourself, your voice and your taste into the craft, and in exchange, stay connected to it when it becomes something new again.

But it’s a long road from student to professional designer with an iconic style. You can think you’re at the end of the road, that you’ve found your voice, and you can be wrong. You can be sincere in believing that the work you’re sharing is not derivative or too similar to another artist—telling yourself “well, they don’t own that way to draw a tree”—and you can be wrong. Ultimately, you can never be sure that your work is completely your own—because, ultimately, it’s not.

We’re constantly trying to reconcile the designer we are, with the designer we’re trying to prove we are. All terrified we’ll be found out for anything less than 100% original, claiming that all our work was made in a dark room, and we’ve only just emerged to show you the finished product. Simultaneously trying to prove that we understand what the trends are, while differentiating ourself as anything but trendy. We’ve all agreed that it’s not how design works, but continue to perpetuate the myth for any passerby who might look in. Design builds on itself. We’re inspired by each other. When their solution is better than yours, you’d be stupid not to use it. The only reasons not to, being self-serving, and detrimental to the product you’re working on.

All you can do is try to solve the problem you’ve been given, with the resources on hand. You can work hard to diversify your sources; pull inspiration from other mediums. You can hone your craft and get better at identifying other artists work and style. You can work hard to honestly question your work, and the sources you used. You can be, like, really-definitely-pretty-sure that your work is your own—a unique repurposing of styles and ideas and solutions. But you can’t guarantee it. When you’re making it, when the trends are happening, you’re in too deep. Look back in 6 months; a year; 2 years; you might not be so proud.

And you don’t find out until you’re blind-sided by a side-by-side tweet. Some self-important designer with more time than inspiration, proud to have happened upon you walking towards an open snare, holding up their catch for all to see and anticipating the fleeting fame of a jeering crowd. It’s the low hanging fruit of design heroism. Anyone can call out stolen work, and call it justice. Everyone cries “here here!” and basks in the glory of another evil-doer thwarted, without actually doing any of the work. But it’s not justice, it’s just a cathartic distraction at the expense of someones career and self worth, with no judge or jury.

There’s a feeling in the design community that I can’t reconcile. I adore the design community. I brag about it to anyone who will listen. When I run out of things to say, I just start over from the top — certain that you can’t fully grasp just how welcoming/humble/kind/talented every single person is, without experiencing it first hand. But for this one exception: everyone turns a blind eye as we collectively get off at another persons demise. Silicon valley blue balls; can’t stop until the humiliation is finished, but no one wants to clean up the mess when it’s over. Completely lacking in empathy and understanding, we’re constantly doing to other people the one thing we are most afraid of. All reason and thoughtful consideration—is otherwise coveted in the profession—cast off, in favour helping yesterdays neighbour to the executioners block.

It’s the dark corner of our otherwise bright and shiny community. It’s new designers parroting what they think they’re supposed to say. It’s experienced designers looking for retribution. It’s idolized designers doing it first. When people who are idolized — my idols—in the community—my community—decide to rile the crowd instead of having a private conversation. When they not only decide to level one designer (probably student)(probably talented)(probably just made an honest mistake), but also teach all their followers that they should do it too. When they teach new designers that is not just okay, but encouraged to shame their peers without consideration or empathy. You guys (& gals)(& er’body in between) there’s not a lot that bothers me in this community, but I think that’s when I might get pissed off.

You might not think people look up to you, but they do. The industry is young, and everyone is looking for someone to aspire to. Some off the cuff tweet can come back to you years later, in an email that says “I dropped out of school because of what you said” “I quit my job because of what you said” “I am happy/sad/empowered/frustrated now because of what you said”. It takes years to find out the kind of impact you have on other people — the paths their careers will take; the way they hold themselves on the internet; the way they treat people. It happens so quickly, and so quietly, that the only thing left to do is lead by example.

We’ve built a community that is better at tearing each other down than they are at building each other up. Endless podcasts — interviews—conferences—articles—tweets—all trying to figure out how to let the new designers in, and each one of them chiming in on the last time two logos used a light house, with no consideration for the designers behind the logos in question. I don’t even bother using contracts that often any more (don’t tell @Monterio ). I have an unspoken contract. When you work on the internet, we’re all holding loaded guns. Each of us with the mob cocked and ready, 140 characters away: mutually assured destruction. Yeah, I could take the money and run; they could decide not to pay me. But when your reputation is all you have, and the internet makes the world so small: this contract is iron clad. It’s comforting. It’s easy. But people make mistakes when they start pulling triggers, and they’re not easy to undo. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to put the gun down.

So here is what I propose:

Call off all witch hunts. No. Call to call off the witch hunts. Take ownership of your community and don’t stand idly by when another noose drops. This thing we’re doing, it’s mostly grey, and we’re acting like it’s black and white. Stop leveraging the grey area for personal gain, amassing the army behind a takedown groupthink. Refuse to tolerate when someone else tries to do the same.

Put down the torches, and instead opt in to a community that pours positivity and encouragement into a field that is only just beginning to prove it’s worth and value. Actively contribute to a culture where everyone feels encouraged and safe to share their work. Foster an environment where it’s okay to make a mistake. Help your peers put their egos aside in favour of a collaborative community that understands the shared value of building off each other. Embrace the culture of copying for all it’s benefits, and none of the downsides. Instead of spending your time tearing someone down, invite the opportunity to innovate. If you don’t want people to copy you, be someone who can’t be copied. But damn it’s fun to watch people try.