larlet-fr-david-cache/cache/2021/4072b1e628106ec95319062a87d21f47/index.md

title: Copying is the way design works
url: https://matthewstrom.com/writing/copying/
hash_url: 4072b1e628106ec95319062a87d21f47

<div class="l--grid copying">
    <div class="l--grid-narrow l--mar-top-s post">
        <div class="c--gray"><p>
            This is a very short book about copying. Its contents, unless
            otherwise noted, are licensed under
            </p><a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">CC-BY SA 4.0</a><p>
            (more on that in a bit). You can download, copy, remix, excerpt,
            change, and repost it however you see fit.
        </p></div>
        <p class="copying--chapter">I</p>
        <p>
            <strong class="t--transform-uppercase">Charles Eames</strong> said
            it best: “We don’t do ‘art’ — we solve problems.”
        </p>

        <p>
            To buy furniture in 1950, you had to choose between affordable and
            enduring, between rugged and fashionable. Charles and Ray designed a
            chair that was all the above and sold it for $20.95.
            They called it the LCW.
        </p>

        <p>
            The LCW embodies the Eames’ obsession with simplicity in material
            and method. “We want to make the best for the most for the least,”
            they said.
            The design was revolutionary: in 1999, <em>Time</em> magazine called
            the LCW “the best design of the century.”
            Today, you can buy a brand new LCW from Herman Miller (the
            officially licensed manufacturer of Eames products) for $1,195.
        </p>
        <p>
            Or, you can buy a chair called the “Fathom” from a company called
            Modway for $145.
        </p>
        <p>Functionally and aesthetically, the chairs are identical.</p>
    </div>
    <div class="l--grid-wide">
        <figure class="l--flex">
            <div class="l--flex-half">
                <img loading="lazy" src="https://d33wubrfki0l68.cloudfront.net/0b07ec2420d962333516565bbf3c484cc8b2ca4f/e52a1/images/copying-1.jpg" alt="Eames Molded Plywood Lounge Chair">
                <figcaption>
                    Eames Molded Plywood Lounge Chair<br>© Herman Miller
                </figcaption>
            </div>
            <div class="l--flex-half">
                <img loading="lazy" src="https://d33wubrfki0l68.cloudfront.net/e244c88f486534fd5ef1b92be27de149fb5d95a4/6a616/images/copying-2.jpg" alt="Modway Fathom">
                <figcaption>Modway Fathom<br>© Modway</figcaption>
            </div>
        </figure>
    </div>
    <div class="l--grid-narrow post">
        <p>
            There’s an LCW from 1946 in MOMA’s collection. It’s one of the very
            first ever made. Most people would call it the original LCW.
        </p>
        <p>
            Charles and Ray Eames sold the manufacturing rights for their
            furniture to Herman Miller in 1947. Collectors call the LCWs made in
            the ’40s and ’50s “originals.” But in some sense, these — and the
            more recently manufactured Herman Miller versions — are copies of
            that LCW in the MOMA collection.
        </p>
        <p>
            And then there’s the Modway Fathom. It’s clearly a copy, an
            unlicensed one at that. But at $145 (the equivalent of $12.78 in
            1947) it’s more affordable than the LCW was when it was first
            manufactured and sold. In spirit, it’s more of an original than any
            LCW: the best, for the most, for the least.
        </p>
        <hr class="copying--divider">
        <p>
            I’m sharing this story because it demonstrates a surprising fact:
            what makes something “original” (the first, the best, the most
            famous, the most true) or a “copy” (an identical copy, an
            unauthorized replica, an interpretation or a remix) isn’t always
            obvious — or important.
        </p>
        <p>
            I’m a designer. As a designer, I feel the need to be original. If
            you’re a designer, or even if you’re just interested in design, you
            probably feel the need to be original, too. We tend to worship
            inventors and originators, designers who were trailblazing and
            innovative. And we copy them.
        </p>
        <p>
            This oxymoron of a craft can drive a person crazy. There’s lots of
            space between originality and industry, authorship and
            acknowledgement, riffing and ripping. I wrote this very short book
            to explore that space.
        </p>
        <p>
            Some people have been frustrated by copying, refused to accept it,
            and struggled with every ounce of their strength against it. Other
            people have used copying to their advantage, whether to improve
            themselves, build a community, or subvert authority.
        </p>
        <p>I’ve only been able to have a career in design because I copied.</p>
        <p>
            I hope that by the time you’ve finished reading, you’ll see how
            important copying is. Right or wrong, virtue or vice, copying is the
            way design works.
        </p>
        <p class="copying--chapter">II</p>
        <p>
            <strong class="t--transform-uppercase">Steve Jobs copied.</strong>
            “Great artists steal,” he said, quoting Pablo Picasso (or was it
            Stravinsky? T. S. Eliot?). Jobs and Apple copied many designs in their early days, most
            notably from a Xerox research laboratory in Palo Alto. The story
            goes like this:
        </p>
        <p>
            In the early 20th century, Xerox was a pioneer of office technology.
            By the middle of the century, computers were getting smaller and
            more affordable, and Xerox knew they’d have to work hard to keep
            their market dominance. In 1970, The Xerox Palo Alto Research Center
            — Xerox PARC — was founded to explore the future of the “paperless
            office.”
        </p>
        <p>
            Within two years, Xerox PARC had designed a groundbreaking computer
            called the Alto. One of its innovations was a graphical user
            interface: programs and files were displayed in virtual windows
            which users navigated using a mouse. It was an eerily accurate
            picture of what personal computers would look like 30 years later.
        </p>
        <p>
            Jef Raskin, leader of the Macintosh project at Apple, had seen
            Xerox’s work. He wanted Steve Jobs to see it for himself, and set up
            a meeting.
        </p>
        <p>
            “I thought it was the best thing I’d ever seen in my life,” Jobs
            said of the Alto’s user interface. “Within ten minutes it was
            obvious to me that all computers would work like this some day.”
        </p>
        <p>
            When the Macintosh was released in 1984, it featured a graphical
            user interface. Programs and files were displayed in virtual windows
            which users navigated using a mouse.
        </p>
        <p>It was just like the Alto.</p>
    </div>
    <div class="l--grid-push-right">
        <figure class="l--flex">
            <div class="l--flex-half">
                <img loading="lazy" src="https://d33wubrfki0l68.cloudfront.net/08f14f2c6bb50c5a76d1d2f55afdf8225ea016da/d6ad1/images/copying-3.jpg" alt="Xerox Alto Operating System">
                <figcaption>
                    Xerox Star Operating System<br>© Xerox
                </figcaption>
            </div>
            <div class="l--flex-half">
                <img loading="lazy" src="https://d33wubrfki0l68.cloudfront.net/4a9ba3ffa923511892c05b85e016dad99982b3b7/fe2ca/images/copying-4.jpg" alt="Apple Macintosh Operating System">
                <figcaption>
                    Apple Macintosh Operating System<br>© Apple
                </figcaption>
            </div>
        </figure>
    </div>
    <div class="l--grid-narrow post">
        <p>Steve Jobs didn’t like to be copied.</p>
        <p>
            In 1985, a year after the Macintosh was launched, Apple sued a
            company called Digital Research Interactive for copying the
            Macintosh’s user interface. Digital Research settled out of court,
            and changed the appearance of its icons, windows, and mouse
            pointers.
        </p>
        <p>
            In 1990, Apple sued both Microsoft and Hewlett-Packard. The case was
            a repeat: Microsoft’s Windows and HP’s NewWave featured designs that
            Apple claimed were copies of the Macintosh’s operating system. But
            early licensing agreements between Apple and Microsoft made it
            unclear if any infringement took place; the case was thrown out.
        </p>
        <p>
            In the middle of Apple’s case against Microsoft, Xerox sued Apple,
            hoping to establish its rights as the inventor of the desktop
            interface. The court threw out this case, too, and questioned why
            Xerox took so long to raise the issue.
            Bill Gates later reflected on these cases: “we both had this rich
            neighbor named Xerox ... I broke into his house to steal the TV set
            and found out that [Jobs] had already stolen it.”
        </p>
        <p>
            The rampant copying fueling the explosive growth of consumer
            computers meant that by 1990, the desktop user interface was
            ubiquitous; it was impossible to determine who originated any part
            of it, or who copied who. The quest to stake their claim nearly
            consumed Apple. But when they emerged, they had learned a thing or
            two. Today, Apple holds more than 2,300 design patents.
        </p>
    </div>
    <div class="l--grid-wide">
        <figure>
            <img loading="lazy" src="https://d33wubrfki0l68.cloudfront.net/c6e3a601fe1273b3e15343f0d9bf3e0505307772/032f8/images/copying-5.jpg" alt="Apple's design patent for a device with rounded corners">
            <figcaption class="t--align-center">
                Apple's design patent for a device with rounded corners
            </figcaption>
        </figure>
    </div>
    <div class="l--grid-narrow post">
        <p>
            This story ends in 2011, with Apple suing Samsung for copying the
            design of its software and hardware products. One of the most
            remarkable claims: Samsung broke the law when it sold “a rectangular
            product with four evenly rounded corners.”
        </p>
        <p>
            The court rejected Apple’s claim to own rounded rectangles. But it
            upheld the other claims, fining Samsung a blistering $539 million
            for patent violations.
        </p>
        <p>
            Designers copy. We steal like great artists. But when we see a copy
            of our work, we’re livid. Jobs, on Google’s Android: “I will spend
            my last dying breath if I need to, and I will spend every penny of
            Apple’s $40 billion in the bank, to right this wrong. I’m going to
            destroy Android, because it’s a stolen product.”
        </p>
        <p>
            Steve Jobs was unmatched in his visionary dedication to innovation.
            But he never came to terms with the inevitability of copying.
        </p>
        <p class="copying--chapter">III</p>
        <p>
            <strong class="t--transform-uppercase">John Carmack had </strong>a
            different relationship with copying. For him, copying was a way to
            learn, a challenge to overcome, and a source of new ideas.
        </p>
        <p>
            Carmack was — still is — a brilliant coder. He’s best known for
            programming the ultraviolent and action-packed first-person shooters
            <em>Doom</em> and <em>Quake</em>. Those games pushed the limits of
            consumer computers and defined a genre. But his first real
            breakthrough game was simpler, cuter, more whimsical. It was called
            <em>Commander Keen</em>.
        </p>
        <p>
            Growing up in the early ’90s, I loved <em>Commander Keen</em>. It’s
            a goofy adventure game; you guide an eight-year-old boy wearing a
            football helmet and red Converses through alien planets, collecting
            candy bars and zapping monsters with a ray gun.
        </p>
        <p>
            <em>Keen</em> began life as a copy of another of my favorite games:
            <em>Super Mario Bros. 3</em>.
        </p>
        <p>
            Before <em>Keen</em>, Carmack was working for a subscription
            software company called Softdisk. Carmack and the other programmers
            at Softdisk churned out these games at a prodigious rate: today,
            blockbuster games can take more than five years to create;
            Softdisk produced a brand-new full-length game every single month.
        </p>
        <p>
            In September 1990, Carmack decided that for his next game, he’d try
            to tackle a new and daunting challenge: scrolling. At the time, only
            consoles like the Nintendo had enough computing power to smoothly
            scroll scenery, characters, and enemies. The PCs were stuck to
            simple one-screen-at-a-time games. But if Carmack was going to sell
            millions of games like Nintendo had with <em>Super Mario Bros.</em>,
            he needed to figure out how to recreate the effect.
        </p>
        <p>
            So, on September 19, 1990, Carmack and another developer named Tom
            Hall decided to reverse-engineer the first level of
            <em> Super Mario Bros. 3</em>. Working through the night, Carmack
            coaxed his PC into scrolling and animating the world of
            <em>Super Mario</em>; Hall jumped back and forth between a TV screen
            and his computer, playing the Nintendo version, pausing to copy the
            images pixel-for-pixel.
        </p>
    </div>
    <div class="l--grid-push-right">
        <figure class="l--flex">
            <div class="l--flex-half">
                <img loading="lazy" src="https://d33wubrfki0l68.cloudfront.net/c96ef863000c95ef229c6623f607f443a0188b7e/5e461/images/copying-6.jpg" alt="Super Mario Bros. 3">
                <figcaption>Super Mario Bros. 3<br>© Nintendo</figcaption>
            </div>
            <div class="l--flex-half">
                <img loading="lazy" src="https://d33wubrfki0l68.cloudfront.net/863a8ab20376613b64817d0347bb5aa2d62dfcf6/53f49/images/copying-7.jpg" alt="John Carmack's unlicensed PC port of Super Mario Bros. 3">
                <figcaption>
                    John Carmack's unlicensed PC port of Super Mario Bros. 3<br>
                </figcaption>
            </div>
        </figure>
    </div>
    <div class="l--grid-narrow post">
        <p>
            The next day, their coworkers were floored. Nobody had ever seen a
            PC game work like this. John Romero, Carmack’s closest colleague and
            future collaborator on <em>Doom</em> and <em>Quake</em>, called it
            “the fucking coolest thing on the planet.”
            He insisted that they keep copying until they had finished an exact
            replica of the full game. They were going to send it to Nintendo.
        </p>
        <hr class="copying--divider">
        <p>
            Unfortunately for Carmack and his team, Nintendo wasn’t interested
            in a PC version of <em>Super Mario</em> (their console version was
            doing just fine, thank you very much).
        </p>
        <p>
            Disappointed, but not defeated, they resolved to build a better
            version of Mario. Starting with Carmack’s code for scrolling and
            animating the screen, the coders — calling themselves Ideas from the
            Deep, keeping the game a secret from their day jobs at Softdisk —
            put their <em>Super Mario</em> copy through a complete
            metamorphosis. In place of Mario, it starred eight-year-old Billy
            Blaze. Instead of turtles and mushrooms, the enemies were aliens
            called Yorps. Instead of eating a mushroom to jump higher, Billy
            Blaze hopped on a pogo stick.
        </p>
        <figure>
            <img loading="lazy" src="https://d33wubrfki0l68.cloudfront.net/3915b2dcbfbf91aa3eeb376a535ae09db487d215/e87d5/images/copying-8.jpg" alt="Commander Keen in Invasion of the Vorticons">
            <figcaption>
                <em>Commander Keen in Invasion of the Vorticons</em><br>©3D
                Realms
            </figcaption>
        </figure>
        <p>
            The debut <em>Commander Keen</em> game,
            <em>Commander Keen in Invasion of the Vorticons</em>, was a huge
            success. More than 50,000 copies were sold, making <em>Keen</em> one
            of the best-selling PC games of its time.
        </p>
        <p>
            Unlike Steve Jobs, John Carmack never changed his mind about
            copying. When his boss at Softdisk suggested that they patent
            Carmack’s PC scrolling technique, Carmack reeled. “If you ever ask
            me to patent anything,” he said, “I’ll quit.”
        </p>
        <hr class="copying--divider">
        <p>
            In a 2005 forum post, John Carmack explained his thoughts on
            patents. While patents are framed as protecting inventors, he wrote,
            that’s seldom how they’re used. Smart programmers working on hard
            problems tend to come up with the same solutions. If any one of
            those programmers patents their solution, the rest are screwed.
        </p>
        <p>
            He concluded: “I’ll have no part of it. Its [sic] basically mugging
            someone.”
        </p>
        <p>
            In his games after <em>Keen</em>, Carmack would go beyond simply
            refusing to patent his inventions. He would release the source code
            to the biggest games of the ’90s, <em>Wolfenstein 3D</em>,
            <em>Doom</em>, and <em>Quake</em>. Everyone is free to download,
            modify, or copy them.
        </p>
        <p class="copying--chapter">IV</p>
        <p>
            <strong class="t--transform-uppercase">It’s one thing to copy.</strong>
            It’s another to encourage others to copy from you. Richard Stallman
            went even further — he made copying a right.
        </p>
        <p>
            In 1983, Richard Stallman wanted to build a new operating system. At
            the time, Unix was the most popular and influential operating
            system, but it was expensive to license. Commercial licenses cost
            $20,000 — that’s $52,028 in 2020 money.
            And Unix was closed-source.
        </p>
        <p>
            So on September 27, 1983, he wrote this message on the Unix Wizards
            message board:
        </p>
        <blockquote class="t--family-mono">
            Free Unix!<br><br>
            Starting this Thanksgiving I am going to write a complete
            Unix-compatible software system called GNU (for Gnu's Not Unix), and
            give it away free to everyone who can use it. Contributions of time,
            money, programs and equipment are greatly needed.
        </blockquote>
        <p>
            That Stallman would write software and give it to others to use, for
            free, was a radical notion. To drive the point home, Stallman wrote
            a manifesto, defining the idea of
            <strong>free software</strong> (“Free software is software that
            users have the freedom to distribute and change.”) The manifesto kicked off the free software movement.
        </p>
        <p>
            The enduring innovation of Stallman’s movement was how he and his
            co-conspirators used software licenses. They flipped traditional
            licensing on its head: instead of prohibiting the copying or
            distribution of the software, a free software license guarantees the
            right of people to use, modify, distribute, and learn from its code.
        </p>
    </div>
    <p class="l--grid-push-left">
        <figure class="copying--quote">
            Instead of prohibiting the copying or distribution of the software,
            a free software license guarantees the right of people to use,
            modify, distribute, and learn from its code.
        </figure>
    </p>
    <div class="l--grid-narrow post">
        <p>
            New kinds of software licenses weren’t the only product of the free
            software movement. Ideological offshoots quickly spun out into new
            groups, like the <strong>open-source software</strong> movement.
            While Stallman’s free software faction was centered around a small
            group of hard-line progressive coders, the open-source movement was
            broad and inclusive, abandoning some of Stallman’s more political
            language to spread farther and find new audiences.
        </p>
        <p>
            Permissive licensing and distributed source control form the engine
            of modern software development. They create a feedback loop, or a
            symbiotic pair, or a living organism, or maybe even a virus: the
            tools that software developers use are themselves products of the
            open-source philosophy. Free and open-source code replicates itself,
            mutates, and spreads instantly across the world.
        </p>
        <hr class="copying--divider">
        <p>
            The free and open-source software movements (sometimes combined into
            a single acronym, FOSS) were echoed by another revolution in how
            creative works are licensed. In 2001, Lawrence Lessig, Hal Abelson,
            and Eric Eldred started Creative Commons, a non-profit and
            international network dedicated to enabling the sharing and reuse of
            “creativity and knowledge through the provision of free legal
            tools.”
        </p>
        <p>
            Nearly 20 years later, nearly half of a million images on Flickr
            have Creative Commons (or CC) licenses. Wikipedia uses CC licenses
            on all its photos and art. MIT provides more than 2,400 courses
            online for free under Creative Commons licenses. Countless millions
            of creative works have benefited from the open-source approach to
            licenses and permissions.
        </p>
    </div>
    <div class="l--grid-narrow">
        <figure>
            <img loading="lazy" src="https://d33wubrfki0l68.cloudfront.net/a19baf08ad09c7e052d4064ed8cbead32c5a1a70/89826/images/copying-9.jpg" alt="An image of a feedback loop from Flickr's Creative Commons archive">
            <figcaption>
                An image of a feedback loop from Flickr's Creative Commons
                archive
            </figcaption>
        </figure>
    </div>
    <div class="l--grid-narrow post">
        <p>
            A decade ago, the open-source movement came to design. Michael Cho
            created
            <a href="https://unsplash.com/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Unsplash</a>
            in 2013 to share a few photographs he thought might be useful to
            designers at startups; as of September 2020, Unsplash hosts
            2,147,579 photos, and all-time photo downloads are well over 2
            billion.
            Pablo Stanley recently released
            <a href="https://www.humaaans.com/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Humaaans</a>, a collection of Creative Commons-licensed designs that can be
            re-assembled into editorial graphics.
            <a href="https://feathericons.com/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Feather icons</a>,
            <a href="https://heroicons.dev/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Heroicons</a>, and
            <a href="https://icons.getbootstrap.com/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Bootstrap Icons</a>
            are all open-source and free-to-use collections of UI icons, used by
            designers to build websites and applications.
        </p>
        <p>
            Meanwhile, the explosion of open-source design resources has been
            bolstered by a new class of tools for sharing and collaborating on
            design.
            <a href="https://www.abstract.com/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Abstract</a>
            is a version-control system for design that promises “collaboration
            without the chaos.” With Abstract, many designers can contribute to
            a single file, without worrying about overwriting each other's
            changes or always needing to download the latest versions. Figma,
            too, has just launched
            <a href="https://www.figma.com/community" target="_blank" rel="noopener">its community feature</a>
            , allowing designers to publish files and download each other’s
            projects. It’s not hard to imagine how this will evolve into a
            designer’s version of
            <a href="https://github.com" target="_blank" rel="noopener">GitHub</a>
            in the near future. Other design tools have followed suit: both
            Sketch and Framer have launched community content hubs, laying the
            groundwork for distributed source control.
        </p>
        <p>
            Copying is fundamental to design, just as it is to software. The
            rise of permissive licenses and version control tools makes it seem
            like copying is a new idea, an innovative approach in an industry
            that thrives on novelty. But the truth is, copying has informed art
            and industry for thousands of years.
        </p>
        <p class="copying--chapter">V</p>
        <p>
            In China, there are many concepts of a copy, each with distinct
            subtext. Fangzhipin (仿製品) are copies that are obviously different
            from the original — like small souvenir models of a statue. Fuzhipin
            (複製品) are exact, life-size reproductions of the original.
            Fuzhipin are just as valuable as originals, and have no negative
            stigma.
        </p>
        <p>
            In 1974, local farmers in the Xi’an region of China unearthed
            life-sized sculptures of soldiers made of terra cotta clay. When
            Chinese archeologists came to investigate the site, they uncovered
            figure after figure, including horses and chariots, all exquisitely
            detailed. All told, there were more than 8,000 terra cotta soldiers.
            They were dated to 210 BCE.
        </p>
        <figure>
            <img loading="lazy" src="https://d33wubrfki0l68.cloudfront.net/67da4e33e9db15e360d0cd212926b8aa5e09d757/b06c3/images/copying-10.jpg" alt="Terracotta warriors, Xi'an city">
            <figcaption>Terracotta warriors, Xi'an city</figcaption>
        </figure>
        <p>
            The terracotta warriors instantly became cultural treasures. A
            museum was built on the site of the excavation, but many of the
            statues were also exhibited in traveling shows. Hundreds of
            thousands of museumgoers all over the world lined up in galleries to
            see the soldiers.
        </p>
        <p>
            Then, in 2007, a revelation rocked the Museum für Völkerkunde in
            Hamburg, Germany: some of the terracotta warriors it had on display
            were not the originals that had been discovered in the field in
            Xi’an. They were copies.
        </p>
        <p>
            The Museum für Völkerkunde’s director became a pariah: “We have come
            to the conclusion that there is no other option than to close the
            exhibition completely, in order to maintain the museum’s good
            reputation.” The museum issued refunds to visitors. The event kicked
            off a rash of geopolitical finger-pointing: German officials cried
            foul, saying they were duped; Chinese officials washed their hands,
            since they never claimed the statues were originals to begin with.
        </p>
        <p>
            The statues in the Hamburg museum were fuzhipin, exact copies. They
            were equivalent to the originals. After all, the originals were
            themselves products of mass manufacturing, made with modules and
            components cast from molds. Almost as soon as the terracotta
            warriors were discovered, Chinese artisans began producing replicas,
            continuing the work that had started more than 2,000 years
            before.
        </p>
        <hr class="copying--divider">
        <p>
            It’s easy to attribute this approach to copying as a cultural
            curiosity, an aberration particular to China. But copying was just
            as vital to Western artists.
        </p>
        <p>
            Japanese art was one of the main sources of inspiration for Vincent
            van Gogh, himself one of the most influential European painters of
            the 19th century, if not of all time. Van Gogh was fascinated by the
            woodblock prints of artists like Hiroshige: stylized and vivid, they
            captured dramatic moments within compelling stories.
        </p>
        <p>
            Van Gogh’s interest went beyond inspiration. To study the techniques
            mastered by Japanese artists, he copied prints by Keisei Eisen and
            Utagawa Hiroshige. He tried to replicate their bold lines, their
            energetic compositions, and their strong colors. For his copy of
            Eisen’s A courtesan, van Gogh started by tracing the outline of the
            courtesan’s figure directly from the May 1886 edition of Paris
            Illustré. For Flowering Plum Tree and The Bridge in the Rain, both
            copies of Hiroshige prints, he added borders of Japanese calligraphy
            he had seen on other prints.
        </p>
    </div>
    <div class="l--grid-push-right">
        <figure class="l--flex">
            <div class="l--flex-half">
                <img loading="lazy" src="https://d33wubrfki0l68.cloudfront.net/6a6a1d3bacb2409aee732c112317ab78697b83ff/ba1c6/images/copying-11.jpg" alt="Sudden Shower over Shin-Ōhashi bridge and Atake (1857) by Hiroshige">
                <figcaption>
                    <em>Sudden Shower over Shin-Ōhashi bridge and Atake</em>
                    (1857) by Hiroshige
                </figcaption>
            </div>
            <div class="l--flex-half">
                <img loading="lazy" src="https://d33wubrfki0l68.cloudfront.net/abe088ff554219cdb7d1562a5a54a91c586e2bba/be71d/images/copying-12.jpg" alt="The Bridge in the Rain (after Hiroshige) (1887) by Vincent Van Gogh">
                <figcaption>
                    <em>The Bridge in the Rain (after Hiroshige)</em> (1887) by
                    Vincent Van Gogh
                </figcaption>
            </div>
        </figure>
    </div>
    <div class="l--grid-narrow post">
        <p>
            His practice with Japanese styles provided a crucial breakthrough.
            Van Gogh began to flatten landscapes. He outlined his subjects in
            bold black strokes. He painted with eye-watering colors. His
            interpretations of reality lit the art world on fire, influencing
            artists and designers to this day.
        </p>
        <p>
            By copying directly from Japanese artists, van Gogh’s works became
            what we know today.
        </p>
        <p>
            He was clear about this influence. In a letter to his brother Theo,
            he wrote: “All my work is based to some extent on Japanese art.”
        </p>
        <hr class="copying--divider">
        <p>
            There’s another word in Chinese for a copy: shanzhai (山寨). It’s
            translated to English as “fake,” but as with most Chinese words, the
            translation is lacking. Shanzhai literally means “mountain
            stronghold;” the word is a neologism, a recent invention, inspired
            by a famous novel in which the protagonists hide in a mountain
            stronghold to fight against a corrupt regime. Shanzhai products are
            playful, drawing attention to the fact that they aren’t original,
            putting their makers’ creativity on display.
        </p>
        <p>
            Take the popular shanzhai novel
            <em>Harry Potter and the Porcelain Doll</em>; in it, Harry goes to
            China to stop Voldemort and Voldemort’s Chinese counterpart. It
            doesn’t pretend to be an original. It plays on its fake-ness: Harry
            speaks Chinese fluently, but he has trouble eating with chopsticks.
        </p>
        <p>
            It’s easy to think of shanzhai as a Chinese quirk, but there are
            parallels in Western culture. One in particular, is a staple of the
            design community: the unsolicited redesign.
        </p>
        <p>
            An unsolicited redesign demonstrates a designer’s ideas for how a
            well-known website or app could be improved. They range from
            single-screen aesthetic tweaks (like
            <a href="https://dribbble.com/shots/13154163-Instafresh" target="_blank" rel="noopener">this take on Instagram</a>) to in-depth case studies in UX, IA, and content design (like
            <a href="https://blog.prototypr.io/gmail-an-unsolicited-redesign-1-2b244886eef8" target="_blank" rel="noopener">this redesign of Gmail’s mobile app</a>).
        </p>
        <p>
            Unsolicited redesigns copy the visual elements of the original as a
            starting point, then transform those elements to produce something
            new. Like van Gogh tracing Eisen, designers can pick up new
            techniques and approaches just by copying. But when a designer riffs
            on the original, they can create something new and inspiring.
        </p>
        <p>
            The design community has a complicated relationship with unsolicited
            redesigns. On the one hand, they’re the mainstay of talented young
            designers looking to demonstrate their ability to think critically
            about design and apply their skills. Companies have used the
            unsolicited redesign to position themselves as leaders: in 2003,
            37signals (creator of the popular project management tool Basecamp)
            created redesigns of PayPal, Google, and FedEx to critical acclaim:
            their redesign of an online car dashboard “could do for cars what
            TiVo did for television,” Jason Kottke proclaimed.
        </p>
        <p>
            In rare cases, unsolicited redesigns turn into solicited ones. In
            2018, Adam Fisher-Cox published a redesign of the digital signage of
            the AirTrain system at John F. Kennedy International Airport. The
            agency overseeing AirTrain saw the redesign and hired Fisher-Cox to
            implement it.
        </p>
    </div>
    <div class="l--grid-wide">
        <figure>
            <div class="l--flex">
                <div class="l--flex-half">
                    <img loading="lazy" src="https://d33wubrfki0l68.cloudfront.net/6d01670fb1837936a4144c089965129891fe8d72/24ae4/images/copying-13.jpg" alt="The old signage for JFK's AirTrain">
                    <figcaption>The old signage for JFK's AirTrain</figcaption>
                </div>
                <div class="l--flex-half">
                    <img loading="lazy" src="https://d33wubrfki0l68.cloudfront.net/aea3c4615e8e7da46ad389562cfc0c3151a70e74/9f2fd/images/copying-14.jpg" alt="The beginning of Adam's redesign, copying directly from the existing signage">
                    <figcaption>
                        The beginning of the redesign, copying directly from the
                        existing signage
                    </figcaption>
                </div>
            </div>
            <div class="l--flex">
                <div>
                    <img loading="lazy" src="https://d33wubrfki0l68.cloudfront.net/4b78ae72718afd062c56551468d4cc3ab3e61f3a/8d4e6/images/copying-15.jpg" alt="The final redesign comissioned by the agency in charge of AirTrain">
                    <figcaption>
                        The final redesign comissioned by the agency in charge
                        of AirTrain. All images courtesy
                        <a href="https://adamfishercox.com/portfolio/airtrain-arrival-signs/">Adam Fisher-Cox.</a>
                    </figcaption>
                </div>
            </div>
        </figure>
    </div>
    <div class="l--grid-narrow post">
        <p>
            On the other hand, unsolicited redesigns are often looked down on.
            In a 2013 essay titled “Keep Your Unsolicited Redesign to
            Yourself,”
            Eric Karjaluoto argued that without acknowledging the constraints
            and incentives that guided an original design, the redesign is
            “utter fluff.” Those working on unsolicited redesigns “should know
            better than to waste their time.” There are countless other
            invectives against unsolicited redesign across the internet of
            design blogs.
        </p>
        <p>
            In 2011,
            <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20111208041110/https://andyrutledge.com/news-redux.php" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Andy Rutledge’s unsolicited redesign of <em>The New York Times</em></a>
            drew the attention of design pundits in countless blog posts and
            tweets.
            But if they disagreed with Rutledge’s conclusions, many defended his
            approach. “Sometimes we need to go crazy and mock up stuff that
            can’t absolutely work in its pure form,” wrote Stijn Debrouwere,
            because “a full-on rethink might be what we need to move
            forward.”
            Even Khoi Vinh, previous design director for the Times, supported
            the practice: “Unsolicited redesigns are terrific and fun and
            useful, and I hope designers never stop doing them.”
        </p>
        <p>
            The shanzhai approach of copying — to learn, to invent, to comment,
            to make a statement — is just at home in the West as it is in China.
        </p>
        <p class="copying--chapter">VI</p>
        <p>
            Copying can be instructive, challenging, devious, or revolutionary.
            To me, copying is fun.
        </p>
        <p>
            When I was young, I liked to trace. My mom would buy me tracing
            paper, and I’d copy comic book characters line for line. Pulling the
            paper back from the original was a rush. I drew this! With my hand!
            Sure, it was a copy, but once I signed my name in the corner, it was
            my copy.
        </p>
        <p>
            These days, there’s automatic copy protection on just about
            everything. You can’t easily pirate Netflix streams, copy Kindle
            books, or torrent Adobe Creative Cloud. But designs are different.
            To copy a design, all you need is tracing paper.
        </p>
        <p>
            In fact, you don’t even have to draw. Pull out your phone, take a
            picture, and save it to your Pinterest board. You can use a color
            picker to extract the exact shade from the design, use a physical or
            digital measuring tool to get the pixel-perfect dimensions, and use
            <a href="https://www.myfonts.com/WhatTheFont/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">WhatTheFont</a>
            to learn the typefaces in the design.
        </p>
        <p>
            If you’re looking at a website, you can just click “view source” and
            see all the design decisions laid out in granular detail. That’s
            exactly how I went from tracing comic books to being a designer: I
            copied designs from websites I liked and pasted them onto my Xanga
            blog.
        </p>
        <p>I copied because I could.</p>
        <p>
            In my first design job, I copied relentlessly. I had created a music
            magazine with friends and tried to recreate the layouts I saw in my
            favorite mags. Wired was a constant source of inspiration: I
            obsessed over their typography. When I figured out that they were
            using Joshua Darden’s Freight Micro, I switched our magazine to use
            it, too.
        </p>
        <p>
            Copying helped me develop as a designer without needing to go to
            design school. For lots of people too young for college-level design
            programs, or without the means to attend these schools or bootcamps,
            copying serves the same function.
        </p>
        <p>
            And then, when folks like me wind up in a career in design, we find
            that copying is still useful. I eyedropper colors from Apple’s
            marketing websites. I start my color palettes from Google’s Material
            Design examples. I screenshot and recreate components from
            Facebook’s new redesign.
        </p>
        <p>
            I don’t fancy myself to be the van Gogh of design, to be anywhere on
            the level of Stallman or Carmack in my approach to copying,
            possessing even one-one-hundredth of Steve Jobs’ ability to steal
            artfully, or to be in any way comparable to Charles or Ray Eames.
            But I can certainly copy all of their work. I can copy their
            mindset, their process, and their designs.
        </p>
        <p>
            I can make cheap, small-scale facsimiles, fangzhipin, to demonstrate
            some quality of the original. I can make exact replicas,
            pixel-perfect fuzhipin, to learn how the originals and their
            creators work. Or I can create shanzhai, unsolicited redesigns,
            commenting and riffing on the work of others. All these copies have
            an important role to play in the process of design.
        </p>
        <p>
            Whether you believe that it’s worthwhile or worthless to copy,
            whether you think that copies are a valuable part of the design
            community or a scourge, you are using software, hardware, websites
            and apps that all owe their existence to copying.
        </p>
        <p>As long as there is design, there will be copying.</p>
        <hr>
    </div>
    
    
</div>