This chapter deals with an alternative distribution network of audiovisual content that belongs neither to the commercial field nor to the institutional one: a type of independent digital infrastructure that I call “shadow platforms.” As in many different sectors, on-demand platforms have become one of the most important publishing devices in the cinematic field today, capable of articulating a complex meshwork of creative agents, cinematic objects and communities of spectators. Such intermediaries are mainly associated with the late capitalist economy (Srnicek 2016), since they play a prominent role in this economic system based more on logistics and mediation than on production, relying above all on cognitive extraction, management of information, and the conversion of publics’ attention into financial profitability (Franck 2019; Citton 2016). Platforms have realized not only what the poet Kenneth Goldsmith (2015) stated from the artistic domain (“Interest has shifted from the object to the information”), but also how to exploit and privatize such shift. Through a focus on singular examples of digital spaces of cinematic circulation (namely UbuWeb and Derives1), I want to foreground a certain kind of online environments of and for curiosities whose functioning differs radically from mass-media companies like Netflix, YouTube, or Amazon Prime. In this reflection on shadow platforms, the notion of “curiosity” refers to the complementarity of its twin contemporary meanings in both English and those of its older Latin root. Appearing in the Anglo-Saxon language during the 14th century as an import from French, this word designates to two distinct semantic areas. “Being curious” means (1) a subjective attitude of eager learning, inquisitiveness, and exploration and (2) an unusual and surprising object that is not immediately available, that asks to be decoded. Of course, the subjective and the objective connotations are tightly interrelated – and even mutually dependent. A further and more ancient dimension of this term should be added to this constellation. It stems from its etymological source (the Latin word cura) and signifies a situation of “care” and “concern” (Manga 2021). This network of meanings helps us to describe an ecology specific to particular digital platforms that works, firstly, as an amateur library where a passionate individual or group collects and organizes, stocks, and shows a variety of different objects (films in particular, but also texts, interviews, etc.).
Both their interest and their difficulty of access make this content worth retrieving and making public again – as Goldsmith (2020, 131) says: “republish or perish”! – through a series of editing gestures. Secondly, curiosity also describes what is required from those accessing the platforms: the public has to be ready to explore a flatly designed space, devoid of personal suggestions, full of “weird” and unknown works that need to be tested and studied. These platforms demand an active and curious engagement from both the publisher and the user, an engagement that challenges the capitalist attentional market on its most crucial field (the distribution of the information through Internet). Curiosity in the Age of Digital Distribution Known for her pioneering feminist reading of the cinematic history, Laura Mulvey (1996) is also one of the rare scholars who has worked specifically on “curiosity” in the field of the film studies and put forward its critical power within the digital transition of cinema. By paying attention to the misadventures of a series of “curious” girls (such as Eve, Pandora, or Bluebeard’s wife), this notion is presented by Mulvey firstly as an attitude belonging to a subordinate subject (because female) and secondly as a dangerous tendency entailing a punishment because it contests the existing order. The curious will unfold in enigmatic, marginal, or forbidden zones that have to be explored and experimented despite of their risks. At the same time, for Mulvey “curiosity” is connected – instead of opposed – to another condition, that she names “fetishism” drawing from the intersection of Freudian and Marxian traditional interpretations of desire: “Rather than seeing fetishism and curiosity as irreconcilably polarized, I tried to find a more dialectical relation between them” (1996, XI). On the one hand, curiosity piques our interest, provokes inquiry and questioning that digs beneath the surface (artificially produced, appealing) rather than just sitting back and enjoying. Curiosity is “a desire to know, as a counterpoint to the blind spots of fetishism” (1996, XI). On the other hand, the fetishist attitude is founded on illusions and the denial of the material reality that allows a dominant power to reproduce itself, but behind its magnetizing surface lay symptomatic shivers that can stimulate gestures of critical investigation (Mulvey 1993). “The concept of fetishism” according to Mulvey “could maintain knowledge and belief simultaneously:” “its symptoms appear reified as things that attract the gaze but also provoke curiosity” (1996, XI). Thus, the fetishist phenomenon is “perverse” because “the more the fetish exhibits itself,” the more the “covered material” it conceals emerges in the shape of enigmatic and symptomatic breaches that need to be decoded (1996, XIV). That’s the case of the representation of femininity in a lot of Hollywood productions, analysed by the feminist scholar. From the Marxian perspective in particular, the fetish generates an attraction by concealing the economical (infra)structure, the labour, and the material conditions implied by a specific object or event. Mulvey emphasizes the technical dimension in this process of denial within the cinematic context, whose “machine” is “always attempting to conceal the process of recording and projection” in order to produce a spectacular
Platforms of Curiosities 189 experience (1996, 9). Fetishism, like curiosity, has to be contextualized in peculiar technical circumstances. Almost 20 years after the publication of Fetishism and curiosity, on the occasion of a foreword introducing a new version of the book (Mulvey 2013), the feminist theorist pointed out retrospectively the importance of the infrastructural turn that marked the historical phase in which its text came out. Her essay appeared in the middle of the 1990s, that is in a period of crucial expansion of digital devices and Internet, and that situation needed to be recognized as a fundamental – but, at the time, unarticulated – key to her thought. Firstly, because of its so-called “dematerialization” (but also its automatization, acceleration, and so on), the images produced and spread by these new media rushed towards a new, more advanced stage of spectacular fetishism. Our gazes have been fed by more and more images (faster, shinier, easier to access) coming out of black boxes whose opacity ensures they are rarely unlocked by critical Pandoras. Yet these kinds of images leave us with even broader horizons for analysis, deconstruction, and detournement: today, it is simpler than 50 years ago to stop images in their tracks, cut their flux, scrutinize their shapes, recompose their meaning. Despite the spectacular effects of a digital culture that makes us its passive spectator and freezes our attention in order to extract value (i.e., money and/or data), new technologies open up a lot of opportunities for being actively, critically, and creatively curious while we explore and use the unprecedented amount of information available to us. Mulvey’s reflections allow us to underline the crucial and strategic role played by curiosity in the digital environments where cultural contents – and more broadly information – are managed by “platform powers” (Ganter and Nielsen 2022). Even if platforms “empower” different kinds of agents “to do things that each of them value and want,” they lead everyone “to become ever-more dependent on the platform in question, increasingly intertwined in asymmetric relations” (2022, 2). Their “ecosystemic governance” aims to attract, shape, and retain the attention of the users while warding off any attention to its processes and hindering any collective decisional power on its “economy” – that is, etymologically (oikonomia in Greek, translated as dispositio in Latin) the disposition of the various elements that characterize a socio-technical environment (Huyghe 2022). If “fetishism, broadly speaking, involves the attribution of self-sufficiency and autonomous power to manifestly ‘man’ derived objects” (Mulvey 1993, 7), curiosity arises from and feeds every gesture or mediatic environment that pushes the users to take on the responsibility of searching and selecting, producing, and transforming the information that circulate through these – our – networks. This attitude of curiosity begins when the given organization of (digital) information is put to work and reset, not just accessed as a service or received as an attractive and hasty recommendation tickling our attention. Curiosity, in this sense, has to be understood as a form of “activism” – according to the thought of Erin Manning and Brian Massumi (2014) – that avoids an automatic, habitual path and activates the limitless but inert online archive by exploring and experiencing some of its unmapped zones as an event. Strangely situated and virtually abstract at the
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same time, such curious events enliven lethargic data by an affective and political gesture. What Is a Shadow Platform? Though they present themselves as neutral structures in which activities and contents simply take place – following a recurring pattern in architectural and media worlds – the platforms are containers technologies whose design and governance is highly political. The work of the feminist thinker Zoé Sophia (2000), for instance, reminds us of the male bias that foregrounds “penetrating” artefacts while backgrounding the carefully crafted situation that hosts them: we pay more attention, for instance, to the content-film rather than the container-screening venue through which our attention and an experience of it become possible. Moreover, the research of the digital sociologist Antonio Casilli (2023) allows us to take into account the political stakes buried under the supposedly indifferent surface of the architectural notion of “platform.” In fact, this word used to signify an agreement between free citizens at the time of the English Revolution (17th century) which secularized a previous meaning concerning a pact between churches: it is meaningful that we have completely lost this “democratic” part of its semantic history. In the relationship set up by the mainstream platforms with their publics, the search for an attractive visibility is inversely proportional to the transparency and openness of the decisional engine that, at the same time, generates and distributes the information. The content we access through these platforms has the ghostly structure of the “commodity” because they reach us magically and immediately: “the presence of labour” – would say Laura Mulvey – “is cancelled by the absolute pristine newness and the never-touched-by-hand packaging that envelops it” (1996, 5). Therefore, the platform ecosystem is rarely perceived as a plural and uncertain collection of experiences and configurations that have to be handled, discussed, and chosen. Among the alternative models of becoming-platform, “cooperativism” (Scholz, 2016) has been highlighted as an interesting and fairer organization of the digital means that is exemplified in the difference the music distributor Resonate presents compared to Spotify. Beyond such possibilities stand darker and more furtive digital containers, with their own economy and politics, that I will call “shadow platform.” UbuWeb (born in the United States almost 30 years ago) and Derives (a French website 20 years old) are two good examples in the moving image field: both based on a money-free economy, a (relatively) low-tech and low-visibility infrastructure, as well as on the promotion of rare or marginal filmic objects augmented by complementary documents (to study). This conception of the term “shadow platform” comes from several English expression, such as “shadow economy” or “shadow library,” that designate alternative structures of distribution of cultural contents (and other goods), irreducible to mainstream markets or public institutions. In his research on the informal infrastructures of contemporary cinema, Ramon Lobato defines “shadow economies” as “unmeasured, unregulated and extra-legal audio-visual commerce” based on
Platforms of Curiosities 191 “subterranean networks” (2012, 1). These systems are often identified as “media piracy” (Karaganis 2011) by a legal and moral system based on private property and copyright – far from Kenneth Goldsmith’s provocative point of view: “Today’s plagiarism and copyright battles are to the 21st century what the obscenity trials were to the 20th” (2015). Goldsmith is the founder of the multimedia online archive of avant-garde creations called UbuWeb, established at the beginning of Internet era, in 1996. It is considered an influential pioneer of the “shadow library” movement, next to other well-known websites as Monoskop or Genesis Library. Talking about this kind of on-line distribution, Goldsmith says: Over the past few years, the term shadow library has emerged to describe vast digital repositories of publicly accessible intellectual materials. A mixture of legitimate and pirate venues, they have grown out of necessity, providing access to electronic copies of millions of copyrighted and uncopyrighted works to anyone around the globe free of charge. (2020, 115)2 These infrastructures that allow “access from below” appeared in a context of limited official access to knowledge but also of an augmented capacity of reproduction and sharing of cultural artefacts, thanks to the digital technologies: “shadow platforms” constitute an answer to “the weaknesses of the commercial and library models of provision” (Karaganis 2018, 12). Even if the existence of such dispositifs relies above all on the possibilities granted by the computing technology, they also emerge from other historical and technological roots like photocopying (for texts), VHS (for movies), or CDs (for music) that have been amplified by digital technologies. Whereas some commercial platform models look like updated television (Tryon 2015), shadow platforms resemble the (public) library. This image of the library isn’t only appreciated by Goldsmith but also by the Derives founder David Yon (who has also worked as a librarian): “I had not yet studied cinema and the site became a way for me to build a library: if there was a text that I liked, I would take it and put it on the site” (Gravayat and Yon 2021). Online shadow libraries could belong to the field of “shadow platforms,” that I approach mostly from the audiovisual perspective. What is a shadow platform then? How does it work? I’ll characterize this kind of infrastructure by listing a series of interrelated features drawn from my most important references (UbuWeb and Derives), hopefully compatible with a lot of other digital adventures.
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militant cinema, avant-garde films – leads in general to an absence from the main circuits (public and private) of promotion and distribution.
Platforms of Curiosities 193 platform supply a lot of additional information that helps the users to think about the contents first and, then, about the gestures and the infrastructures they depend on. A space devoted to images, as UbuWeb or Derives, will provide the public with textual and audio documents (interviews, critical essays, manifestos, etc.). Between Curiosities and Study The legendary birth of one of the most famous cinema archives of the world, La Cinémathéque Française, reminds us that often informal economies and cultural planning from below (that I’ve called “under-policies” in Rasmi 2021a) anticipate formal economies and institutional policies. Before becoming an official institution in the mid-1930s, La Cinémathèque had been the curious adventure of a small company of friends gathered around Henri Langlois as a film club (Olmeta 2013). The group started gathering a private collection of copies of important forgotten movies – that risked being lost – by rummaging through flea markets and bargaining with itinerant entrepreneurs in order to buy second-hand (cheaper, but old and well-worn) films. Those movies were conserved – in Langlois’ bathroom, according to the myth – and shared during public screenings. If we consider the example of “cabinets of curiosities” (Devenne 2004), it is easy to see how the amateur tradition of collecting and archiving dates back to older periods than the beginning of the 20th century. Tightly connected to the rise of modern science and public museums, their history deserves to be taken into consideration, despite their questionable involvement in colonial and social domination. Developed between the 16th and 17th centuries all over Europe, the “cabinets of curiosities” (also known as “wonder-rooms,” from the German Wunderkammer) were half-private and halfpublic spaces where erudite collectors from the elites gathered interesting and odd objects from both the human and the natural world. The purpose of these collections was both aesthetic (as an impressive show of exotic things) and intellectual (an archive for scholarly activities and the discovery of the world). The Italian name for theses cabinets, “studioli,” put forward the function of “study” attached to these gestures and spaces where the activity of collecting and sharing was driven not only by aims of seduction and mastery but also by a desire of inquiry and knowledge. In this sense, curiosity as an intellectual passion has to be related to gestures of studying, if we understand such gestures as beyond and against the institutional frame of the official teaching structures, following Harney and Moten’s thought (2013). Where there is a curious investigation feeding from, and into, a collection of available curiosities, study also unfolds. In this respect, it is important to underline that, firstly, from an etymological perspective studium – which in Latin didn’t mean simply “learning” but more broadly “care,” “eagerness,” or “enthusiasm” – is close to curiositas. Secondly, that it is impossible to separate studying from the environment in which it takes place. Indeed, the word “studio” also signifies a place for creative and intellectual activity, corroborating this intuition: the context of the gesture is inseparable from the gesture itself – nor is the agency from the environmental assemblage (agencement) (Rasmi 2021b, 23).
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Kenneth Goldsmith’s choice to compare his “shadow platform” to a library – that is, to the public space devoted to collective and free study par excellence – is highly meaningful: “although UbuWeb isn’t exactly a shadow library, it shares many ideals with the shadow libraries” (2020, 116). Between Folk Archiving and Re-publishing The experiences of UbuWeb and Derives can tell us what it means to be a curious collector and curator of a cabinet of second-hand curiosities in the digital age. Indeed, they embody a democratization of these activities that were once elitist. On the one hand, their existence is fed and made possible by a wide network of supporters, as witnessed by this description of Derives: [E]ither people wrote to us because they felt friendly (in the broadest sense) with things they discovered on the site, or we met people because we have always participated in collectives and places related to cinema (for example, in small festivals). (Gravayat and Yon 2021) On the other hand, the people behind such platforms don’t do anything special, only what everyone else is doing every day on their connected devices: searching, “copying,” “acquiring,” “cataloguing,” “archiving,” and sharing information and cultural objects. We live in a historical context where – according to Kenneth Goldsmith (2015) – “the ways in which culture is distributed and archived have become profoundly more intriguing than the cultural artifact itself.” In this sense, in a world as submerged in information as the one we inhabit, attention has not only become a fundamental issue threatened by a continuous crisis (Campo 2022) but also “the management of [one’s own] cultural artifacts – their acquisition, filing, redundancy, archiving, and redistribution” (Goldsmith 2016, 25) has ended up being equally crucial. Every one of the several billion Internet users is potentially working for this purpose while they are “wasting time on the internet:”3 that is, drifting through, scrutinizing, recovering, and forwarding interesting information. Their lonely and eager activity becomes curious when it wanders off the beaten path, ignoring the most deeply rutted tracks drawn by the algorithms running the mainstream economy of visibility, bypassing paywalls and copyright locks, and sharing generously their discoveries with fellow explorers. In effect, the shadow platforms provide a context in which the results of such curiosity can be displayed and re-published (Leibovici 2020) without remaining private. Re-publishing implies not only editorial or curatorial stakes: its gestures of selection, organization, and sharing could be acknowledged as a form of creation. In this sense, Kenneth Goldsmith (2015) dares to call it poetry: “Our poetry has eerily begun to resemble data trails.” In the name of the “alt-librarian Rick Prelinger,” he proclaims, “archiving as a new folk art” and proposes to consider it not only a necessity “widely practiced and . . . unconsciously . . . integrated into a great many people’s lives,” but also a proper “work of art” (Goldsmith 2016, 94).
Platforms of Curiosities 195 The rise of new form of cinematic creation called “desktop films” – rooted in the tradition of the audiovisual essay – illustrates clearly the importance of such activities and their artistic involvement: the films made by young filmmakers as Chloé Galibert Lainé and Kevin B. Lee (just to quote two important authors) are based on (and perform) researching, organizing, and displaying open access information throughout the networks and beyond programmed paths. Platforms for Curiosities The shadow platforms aren’t just platform of curiosities, that is digital ecosystems created by curious investigations and collections in order to display their objects. They have to be understood also as platforms for curiosities, which don’t simply ask for attention but require an active engagement based on the transmission of curious behaviours. As a contagious affect, curiosity spreads: sharing curiosity doesn’t diminish it but rather expands and multiplies it. In this sense, the mediation implied by the work behind these archives consists in proposing a meta-program open to a limitless range of choices and paths (of re-programming). That’s why a platform like UbuWeb encourages its users to do something with its contents beyond merely accessing them (first of all, download them without trusting the cloud). Derives toyed with the idea of providing all the people buying their magazine (that it published some years ago) with a mirror version of the entire archive hosted by the platform: We had the idea, by the way, to join a USB key containing the whole site (without the videos) to the next paper issue. It weighs about three gigas, it is possible to put it in a key. That way everyone can have a copy of the site. (Gravayat and Yon 2021) “UbuWeb Top Ten” straightforwardly exemplifies this attitude, supporting reuse and appropriation: since 2006, more than 100 invited curators have chosen and exhibited their favourite resources in the archive, rare gems that deserve wider attention. Curiosity is passed from archive to visitor so that, by taking on the archivist’s and programmer’s role, they produce “a personal attempt at ordering a chaotic world” – something rather common, since everyone “in the digital age” is becoming more and more used to “relentless ‘pinning’ of images on Pinterest, curating of Instagram feeds, or compiling of Spotify playlists,” “contemporary expressions of folk archiving, ones that hearken back to predigital technologies” (Goldsmith 2016, 97). The digital archiving of these platforms gives access to information and, at the same time, leaves us with room for lived experiences. Indeed, access and experience aren’t the same thing: more access doesn’t mean necessarily more experiences (even if it allows them). This potential accessibility requires being activated or immediated as event. For this reason, according to the reflections on “open access cinema” of the librarian and curator Gianmarco Torri (2021), “accessibility alone” doesn’t “exhaust the role of the curatorship and make it unnecessary.” On the
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contrary, the broader availability of filmic objects leads to a greater involvement of curatorship aiming “not only to discover those resources that are now permanently online,” but also “to recover a central dimension of [its] work, cultural mediation with the viewer.” Thanks to its efforts of “contextualization and problematization,” curatorship as an expanded and democratic function (rather than an exclusive job) proposes a meaningful and situated “journey” through digital materials by bringing them towards their (potential) publics. McKenzie Wark, in this regard, has underlined the limits of free access to online cultural contents within the practices of alternative licenses and their gift economy (like copyleft), since those conditions don’t necessarily ensure that content receives the careful social attention that would allow it to escape both oblivion and the status of a hasty and anonymous commodity. She created a protocol named “copygift” to test other tactics of distribution of her famous essay A Hacker Manifesto (2004): I decided that everywhere I went I would offer to sell the book to people (and here I would hold up the pretty little book), or I would give it away as a text file (here I would hold up the flash memory stick on my key ring). . . . You could buy it anywhere, at the chain stores even, or on the Internet, but if you wanted it free you had to get it directly from me, as a gift from one person to the other. (2007) Her proposal highlighted that the conditions of social existence of an intellectual or artistic artifact don’t only rely on its availability but also on the fact of being found, experienced, and relayed by a curious subject who cares about it. While he refuses to exploit the algorithms and the biases of automatic search (for example, within Google’s ecosystem) in order to capture large amounts of collective attention, Kenneth Goldsmith acknowledges the importance of “word-of-mouth and direct linking” in order to slowly build a public. A shadow platform doesn’t need complicated and expensive devices to attract (profitable) attention, it “needs people who care” (2020, 22). This care builds a distributed curatorship – whose etymology bring us back to cura – and at the same time ensures a certain longevity to the platform by protecting it from all upcoming accidents: “servers crash, disks die, life changes and shit happens” (2020, 22). This reflection raises some questions concerning the technical design of this kind of platform. The tendency is towards low tech and a zero degree in complexity (“keep it simple!,” says Goldsmith who still codes his platform in plain HTML), which has several implications. Of course, it is a technical matter of avoiding a digital architecture that would be less independent and more fragile if it relied on complicated and recent software languages only mastered by external coders. At the same time, this environment – devoid of attractive interface, automatic display, or harassing systems of recommendations – also creates a flat organization of information that resembles the storage shelves of an archive or a library. The information (films, above all) doesn’t arrive magically, attempting to hit and retain our attention with attractive suggestions. Rather, it waits to be questioned and kindled
Platforms of Curiosities 197 by the explorer that rummages through its shelves and boxes and finds surprising things. The lists of minor authors or minor works of well-known authors participate in the exciting disorientation generated by such basic and open design. Once something interesting is found by a curious user, the problem appears of its interpretation and experience. Where does it come from? To whom will it be addressed? Curiosity needs to situate the found object (it is situationist!). This issue has also to be understood literally; that is, to give the object a concrete situation of reception that would lead curiosity back towards a (consciousness of a) certain materiality. The media theorist Geert Lovinck (2022, 25) would call these situations – opposed to the basic functioning of “on-demand platforms” – “meeting hubs” or “temporary points of aggregation,” whose aim is “to create commonality.” The discovery of an experimental movie on the laptop screen may lead to the organization of a screening with a proper analogue copy, the encounter with the work of an avant-garde poet may provoke an invitation to the author to perform some texts. A lot of anecdotes point at this dynamic, like the arrival of analogue copies of Stan Brakhage’s films in Brazil because they were watched first on UbuWeb, or a screening tour in France for the Greek militant filmmaker Photos Labrinos triggered by the republication of their work on Derives. Curiosity is a matter of materialization, to quote again Laura Mulvey. Curiosity isn’t satisfied by a poor copy accessed online and is keen to go back to a richer and warmer media within an analogue container: curiosity wishes to share publicly and in person the objects discovered remotely and alone. When David Yon talks about the purpose of Derives since its inception, he described this need very clearly: The idea was to show films and, above all, to get out of a form of solitude: mine, when I was in Paris without knowing anyone and was interested in a certain cinema without knowing where to meet the other people concerned, nor knowing the codes of the milieu. At the birth of the site, there was the idea of finally meeting people. (Gravayat and Yon, 2021) Thanks to and beyond such platforms, curiosity enables Internet users to sew “seeds of screened potential” in “nonsilicon soil” by translating such digital archives “in actual situations outside the machine and the screen experience” (Massumi 2002). Notes 1 Ubuweb is available at www.ubu.com/index.html; Derives is available at http://derives.tv/ 2 The English Wikipedia page “Shadow Library” provides also a clear explanation of this digital phenomenon: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shadow_library (accessed on February 20, 2023). 3 In Italian there is a term describing a random but passionate search based on curiosity (that could be sometime mistaken as “wasting time”): “curiosare.” Sometime this word has a negative meaning when the curious attitude becomes morbid, clumsy, and invasive: a situation that could be easily found in the sick attention to other people’s life aroused by social networks.
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Platforms of Curiosities 199 Scholz, Trebor. 2016. “How Platform Cooperativism Can Unleash the Network.” In Ours to Hack and to Own: The Rise of Platform Cooperativism, A New Vision for the Future of Work and a Fairer Internet. New York: Trebor Scholz & Nathan Schneider, OR Books. Sophia, Zoé. 2000. “Container Tech.” Hypatia 15 (2): 181–201. Srnicek, Nick. 2016. Platform Capitalism. New York: Polity. Torri, Gianmarco. 2021. Open Acces Cinema. Pesaro: Pesaro Film Festival. http://openac cesscinema.org/. [Consulted Dec. 12, 2023] Tryon, Chuck. 2015. “TV Got Better: Netflix’s Original Programming Strategies and Binge Viewing.” Media Industries 2 (2). Wark, McKenzie. 2004. A Hacker Manifesto. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. ———. 2007. “Copyright, Copyleft, Copygift.” Open, March 26, 2007. https://onlineopen. org/copyright-copyleft-copygift.