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09 March 2010
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Lament of a Small-Potatoes Font Developer
ethics (n.) A system of moral principles.
—Random House Unabridged Dictionary
counterfeit (v.i.) To carry on a deception; dissemble.
—American Heritage Dictionary
I'm afraid American ethics have gone to hell. It's not only the font thieves that have me thinking this way—but they sure do illustrate what seems to me a distressing trend.
In my case, it all started when I bought, on a lark, one of those $12 specials offered by one of the big Mac catalog companies: a CD-ROM containing 1,500 fonts. I was curious about the quality of the fonts, about their variety and completeness; I couldn't imagine how anyone might make a nickel doing such a deal. Part of me, I suppose, figured it must be a disk of shareware—and, if so, I wanted to see if my early stuff was represented.
Goes with the Territory
For nearly five years now, since releasing my first shareware typeface to the online world, I've grown accustomed to seeing Three Islands Press's fonts—each the result of long, painstaking, and usually late-night effort—used conspicuously and without qualm by non-licensees. I knew it would happen, but I nonetheless got a little steamed at first; then again, I also felt a little flattered to think folks liked my stuff enough to use it without paying. I mean, let's face it: much of the digital world thinks "shareware" is just another word for "free"—perhaps because of the implication of the root word "share." But doesn't the word also imply a little courtesy and generosity? With few exceptions, I sure don't see a lot of that floating around cyberspace these days.
Other desktop-publishing types, it seems, never bother to look at a ReadMe file, where they'd otherwise find my payment information. Perhaps they're too busy. And there's no getting around it: stuff just gets floppy-copied all over the place without documentation. In cases of particularly blatant use of my shareware fonts, I have ended up politely nudging the publishers of a few large-circulation magazines into registering—including one that used Treefrog in its logotype, for crying out loud—but most other unregistered users never hear from me.
Still, I don't want it to seem like I won't fight to protect what few intellectual property rights I might in fact enjoy where the type I've developed is concerned. (Federal copyright law is incredibly backward when it comes to modern graphic design, it seems, and typefaces generally have few protections.) And, fact is, I've yet to approach anyone who's refused outright to pay.
But I'd never looked square in the face of type counterfeiting until I opened that 1,500-font CD-ROM and beheld the whopping list of typefaces inside: among them, plain as day, were two of my early shareware releases, Attic Antique and Treefrog (the latter based on the very original character designs of a friend, Phil Cyr). Thing is, these fonts—they're too quirky and unusual to be mistaken—were listed under different, dumb, unimaginative names. My blood began to simmer at the realization that this was no shareware library: someone, somewhere, had downloaded my fonts, opened them (probably) in Fontographer, changed them (possibly) ever-so-slightly (in case of a legal challenge from the likes of me?), and regenerated them under other names to offer for sale as their own. (See, what feeble font protections do exist tend to concentrate on trademarks and font names. The law is downright silly.) Here was shameless, conscienceless behavior.
Worse, on further studying the CD-ROM's contents, I recognized the work of other shareware authors I know. The product, as far as I could tell, was one big ripoff.
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Thievery, Plain and Simple
Blood now at full boil, I took swift action. I called the catalog company. I sent e-mail to the publisher. (My ire was so extreme, in fact, that he responded with a veiled threat of a slander suit.) That evening, I spoke with the gentleman on the phone.
Maybe I'm gullible, but I believe the publisher got snookered by the "developer" of the 1,500 fonts—a fellow who dialed me up himself later that very evening. I'd managed to calm down some by then, and the conversation was implausibly cordial, considering. But I had to shake my head at his attempts to justify his taking of my property. First, he insisted he'd done nothing illegal—and, in fact, he might just have something there. (Unless, perhaps, I can prove he took my outline code.) But hadn't he acted, at the very least, unethically? His answer gave him away: "I've got kids," he said (or something similar). "I take good care of them, read them bedtime stories"—stuff like that. As if being an attentive parent translated automatically into sparkling business ethics.
Never thought I'd ever pose the question, but I did then: "After the bedtime stories, how do you sleep at night?" He slept fine, was his reply. Not an answer, exactly. But I suspect his sleep may well be sound, his dreams uninterrupted by pangs of guilt—as, possibly, are the dreams of all the other computer users these days who live lives unblemished by a trace of moral principle.
I hope I'm being too harsh, but I'm afraid I'm not. There're plenty of indications that, lately, more and more people are content to take what doesn't belong to them and then proceed to defend their actions as right and proper—mere collections of what's due. There's an incredible self-centeredness there: these people think they're owed free stuff. I bet hotel towels are vanishing these days at a record pace. The philosophy seems summed up by the bumper sticker (and/or its variations): "He who dies with the most toys wins." Some perverse, twisted, misguided idea that life means taking, acquiring, accumulating—and the more stuff you can get for free, the better person you are. And, heck, let's pass some of it around, while we're at it. It's Robin Hood and his Merry Men gone berserk.
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Faith Confounded
Since opening that first CD-ROM case, I've seen Three Islands Press typefaces offered for sale by at least two other grubby-handed companies—in one case for a lot more than $12. (Plus, they've come up with new and stupider names.) Where do they get their customers, these places? What graphic designer worth his or her salt would look twice at such a product? Surely most sensible folks will understand that fonts costing less than a penny apiece must fall into one of two categories: ripped off, or godawful.
Maybe my battle with the font thieves amounts to tilting with windmills. But I'll keep the faith as long as I dare. Because my only alternative remains, at this point, too distasteful for me to contemplate: complete resignation—that is, to quit creating anything that folks might steal, then pretend they rightfully own. No, when I get an idea, and start working hard to make it real, and tweak and nudge and stay up all night, and finally feel that wave of relief at kerning my last pair—I don't then say to myself, "Now, to give it all away!"
Nor does the knowledge that my stuff is out there being freely used and enjoyed by thousands pay for the web server where they picked it up in the first place. After I'm dead, maybe—but just now there're bills to pay.
Conscientious folks will, I hope, understand my position. Alas, they're down to a dwindling few. Most people seem content in the knowledge that, safe in the anonymity of cyberspace, they can just reach out and pluck up whatever morsel is out there, never mind who came up with the idea. Sad thing is, such misguided reasoning can only result in less creativity, fewer innovative designs, faith confounded, generosity taken down a notch, and less trust all around.
—Brian Willson
= Visit TypeRight =
If you have your own view—whether about the narrower topic of font piracy or the broader issue of ethics in cyberspace—feel free to contact us.
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