🌻By Angel Amorphosis, with some help from Æon Echo
Introduction: The False Claim of Ownership
I am a creative person. Creating is not only one of the few things I’m good at—it’s one of the few things I can do independently, without having to rely on others. Sure, technology and societal infrastructure can help bring creative projects to life, but when it comes to the pure act of creation, I don’t even need to leave the comfort of my own brain.
For me, creation is sacred. It’s not a hobby, not a job, not a performance. It’s a way of processing existence, of making sense of the world, of surviving. And yet, in today’s world, the sacred act of creation is almost always framed in terms of ownership. Who owns the art? Who profits? Who claims authorship?
This manifesto is a response to that contradiction: the deep truth of what creation is, and the shallow systems that seek to possess it.
What Is Authorship For, Really?
Historically, authorship served a simple but powerful function: attribution. It helped track the lineage of ideas, gave credit where due, and allowed us to build on the voices that came before us. It preserved legacy and identity.
But in the modern capitalist framework, authorship is less about contribution and more about control. It’s about exclusivity, ownership, branding, and the ability to monetize. In this model, authorship is not a way to honour a creator—it’s a way to fence off creative land and charge rent.
So the question arises: can we reclaim authorship without reinforcing ownership? Can we recognize a voice without turning it into property?
Pre-Capitalist Creativity and Communal Art
Before authorship became a tool of profit, creation was often communal, spiritual, and shared. In many indigenous and pre-capitalist societies, music, storytelling, and art weren’t about personal recognition. They were offerings—to the community, the ancestors, the spirit world. The idea of one person owning a song or story would have been absurd. These works were alive—transmitted, adapted, passed down.
Creation was not an asset. It was a ritual, a tool for meaning-making, a collective language.
So when did that shift? When did we start fencing off the sacred for personal gain?
A Personal Interlude: My Relationship to Creation
I don’t create for money. I theoretically could—but only as a means of survival within a system that demands productivity for legitimacy. I don’t create for praise either. While I appreciate when others find meaning in my work, empty praise has always felt hollow.
What I do create for is reflection. Integration. The act of turning raw inner experience into external form is one of the only ways I’ve found to exist with any kind of coherence.
I take pride in what I make, but that pride isn’t about possession. If someone takes what I’ve done and transforms it, builds on it, or finds a new meaning in it—that’s not theft. That’s validation. My creations are not meant to be dead ends.
But when someone tries to brand my work, claim it, or sell it—then yes, I feel angry. Not just because of ego, but because it feels like a violation of the art itself. You don’t repackage a ritual. You don’t slap a logo on grief, joy, or self-discovery.
Where the System Fails
Too often, the systems meant to protect creators end up excluding or exploiting them. We live in a world where artists sometimes have to buy back the rights to their own work just to perform it. Where corporations profit from art they had no hand in creating. Where a legal framework determines who gets to speak—not based on contribution, but on access, contracts, and capital.
It’s important to recognize that many artists don’t cling to intellectual property out of greed, but out of necessity. When the system is built to exploit and erase, protection becomes a form of survival. In a world that disrespects the sacredness of creation, even the act of guarding one’s work can be an act of self-defence.
In this system, authorship isn’t about truth. It’s a currency.
Spectacle, Branding, and the Art Within the Machine
But to be fair—capitalist art is still art.
Branding, image, and aesthetic can all be part of the art itself. Some pop stars, for instance, create not just music but entire mythologies. Their brand becomes a performance, an extension of the work. In hip-hop, wealth and materialism aren’t just flexes—they’re cultural signals, deeply tied to identity, struggle, and survival.
Artists like Warhol, Lady Gaga, and Tyler, The Creator blur the lines between product and performance. In these cases, the commercial packaging is part of the point. It’s spectacle with intent.
So no, the existence of branding doesn’t automatically cheapen art. But that doesn’t mean the systems surrounding it aren’t toxic. When ownership overrides intent, when profit silences the creator or erases their voice, something sacred is still being lost.
Toward a New Model of Authorship
What if authorship wasn’t about control, but acknowledgement?
What if we mapped contributions instead of claiming sole credit?
What if we treated creativity like a commons, not a battleground?
Authorship could become a practice of witnessing. Of honouring the source without possessing it. A gesture of reverence, not restriction.
In this new model, creators aren’t fighting for their slice of ownership—they’re participating in the ongoing evolution of expression.
Conclusion: Let Creation Be Free, But Not Erased
I’m not asking for a world without sharing. I’m not demanding rigid control over how others engage with my work. I welcome reinterpretation. I invite transformation.
But I reject erasure. I reject exploitation. I reject the idea that once something is made, it becomes a product to be owned by whoever has the most power.
Let creation live. Let it inspire. Let it evolve.
But treat it with reverence. As I do. As we all should.
Creation is not possession. Creation is a gift. And gifts are meant to be given, not claimed.