Artists Block Cured!: 201 ways to unleash your creativity

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Artist's Block Cured!: 201 Ways to Unleash Your Creativity (Electronic book text)

You get the idea. For example, scholars estimate that the majority of our film holdings are orphan works. Not only are these works unavailable commercially, there is simply no way to find and contact the person who could agree to give permission to digitize the work or make it available in a new form. Take a conservative set of numbers. Subtract from our totals the works that are clearly in the public domain. In the United States, that is generally work produced before That material, at least, we can use freely. Subtract, too, the works that are still available from the copyright holder.

There we can gain access if we are willing to pay. Yet this still leaves a huge proportion of twentieth- and twenty-first-century culture commercially unavailable but under copyright. In the case of books, the number is over 95 percent, as I said before; with films and music, it is harder to tell, but the percentages are still tragically high. A substantial proportion of that total is made up of orphan works. They cannot be reprinted or digitized even if we were willing to pay the owner to do so. And then comes the Internet. Right now, you can search for those books or films or songs and have the location of the work instantly displayed, as well as a few details about it.

And if you live in Washington, D. I was searching the Library of Congress catalogue online one night, tracking down a seventy-year-old book about politics and markets, when my son came in to watch me. He was about eight years old at the time but already a child of the Internet age. He asked what I was doing and I explained that I was printing out the details of the book so that I could try to find it in my own university library.

Imagine what that would be like. Imagine the little underlined blue hyperlink from each title—to my son it made perfect sense. When you clicked the link, surely you would get to read it. That is what happened in his experience when one clicked a link. It was an old book, after all, no longer in print. Imagine being able to read the books, hear the music, or watch the films—or at least the ones that the Library of Congress thought it worthwhile to digitize. Of course, that is ridiculous. I tried to explain this to my son.

I showed him that there were some works that could be seen online. I took him to the online photograph library, meaning to show him the wealth of amazing historical photographs. The material was in the Library, of course—remarkable collections in some cases, carefully preserved, and sometimes even digitized at public expense. Yet only a tiny fraction of it is available online. Most of the material available online comes from so long ago that the copyright could not possibly still be in force. Long enough, in fact, to keep off limits almost the whole history of moving pictures and the entire history of recorded music.

Long enough to lock up almost all of twentieth-century culture. But is that not what copyright is supposed to do? To grant the right to restrict access, so as to allow authors to charge for the privilege of obtaining it? And this is a very good idea. But as I argue in this book, the goal of the system ought to be to give the monopoly only for as long as necessary to provide an incentive.

After that, we should let the work fall into the public domain where all of us can use it, transform it, adapt it, build on it, republish it as we wish. For most works, the owners expect to make all the money they are going to recoup from the work with five or ten years of exclusive rights. The rest of the copyright term is of little use to them except as a kind of lottery ticket in case the work proves to be a one-in-a-million perennial favorite. The one-in-a-million lottery winner will benefit, of course, if his ticket comes up.

But the ticket is not free to the public.

Artist's Block Cured!: ways to unleash your creativity - Linda Krall, Amy Runyen - Google Книги

They pay higher prices for the works still being commercially exploited and, frequently, the price of complete unavailability for the works that are not. Think of a one-in-a-million perennial favorite—Harry Potter, say. Rowling is dust, we will all be forbidden from making derivative works, or publishing cheap editions or large-type versions, or simply reproducing it for pleasure.

I am a great admirer of Ms. Some large costs are being imposed here, for a small benefit. And the costs fall even more heavily on all the other works, which are available nowhere but in some moldering library stacks. To put it another way, if copyright owners had to purchase each additional five years of term separately, the same way we buy warranties on our appliances, the economically rational ones would mainly settle for a fairly short period. Of course, there are some works that are still being exploited commercially long after their publication date.

Obviously the owners of these works would not want them freely available online. This seems reasonable enough, though even with those works the copyright should expire eventually. If one goes back twenty years, perhaps a raisin. A slight raisiny aroma. We restrict access to the whole pudding in order to give the owners of the raisin slivers their due. But this pudding is almost all of twentieth-century culture, and we are restricting access to it when almost of all of it could be available. If you do not know much about copyright, you might think that I am exaggerating.

After all, if no one has any financial interest in the works or we do not even know who owns the copyright, surely a library would be free to put those works online? In a word, no. This means that it is generally not a legal excuse to say that you did not believe you were violating copyright, or that you did so by accident, or in the belief that no one would care, and that your actions benefited the public. Innocence and mistake do not absolve you, though they might reduce the penalties imposed. Since it is so difficult to know exactly who owns the copyright or copyrights on a work, many libraries simply will not reproduce the material or make it available online until they can be sure the copyright has expired—which may mean waiting for over a century.

They cannot afford to take the risk. What is wrong with this picture? Copyright has done its job and encouraged the creation of the work. In some cases, as with film, it may simply make the work completely unavailable. So far I have been talking as though copyright were the only reason the material is not freely available online.

But of course, this is not true. But that still leaves vast amounts of material that we would want, and be willing to pay, to have digitized. Remember also that if the material were legally free, anyone could get in on the act of digitizing it and putting it up. If you are shaking your head as you read this, saying that no one would bother digitizing most of the material in the archives, look at the Internet and ask yourself where the information came from the last time you did a search.

Was it an official and prestigious institution? A university or a museum or a government? Sometimes those are our sources of information, of course. But do you not find the majority of the information you need by wandering off into a strange click-trail of sites, amateur and professional, commercial and not, hobbyist and entrepreneur, all self-organized by internal referrals and search engine algorithms?

In the process, they would create something quite remarkable. The most satisfying proofs are existence proofs. A platypus is an existence proof that mammals can lay eggs. The Internet is an existence proof of the remarkable information processing power of a decentralized network of hobbyists, amateurs, universities, businesses, volunteer groups, professionals, and retired experts and who knows what else. It is a network that produces useful information and services.

Frequently, it does so at no cost to the user and without anyone guiding it. Imagine that energy, that decentralized and idiosyncratically dispersed pattern of interests, turned loose on the cultural artifacts of the twentieth century. Then imagine it coupled to the efforts of the great state archives and private museums who themselves would be free to do the same thing.

Think of the people who would work on Buster Keaton, or the literary classics of the s, or the films of the Second World War, or footage on the daily lives of African-Americans during segregation, or the music of the Great Depression, or theremin recordings, or the best of vaudeville. Imagine your Google search in such a world.

Imagine that Library of Congress. One science fiction writer has taken a stab. Familiar with the effect of this kind of train of thought on his father, my son had long since wandered off in search of a basketball game to watch. But I have to admit his question was something of an epiphany for me: Where do you click to get the actual book?

The response I get from a lot of people is that this vision of the Library of Congress is communism, pure and simple. Surely it will destroy the incentives necessary to produce the next beach novel, the next academic monograph, the next teen band CD, the next hundred-million-dollar movie? But this mistakes my suggestion. Imagine a very conservative system. At the moment, everyone gets a copyright as soon as the work is written down or otherwise fixed, whether they want one or not.

But how long a copyright? We know that the majority of works are only valuable for five or ten years. Let us give copyright owners more than double that, say twenty-eight years of exclusive rights. If prior experience is any guide, 85 percent of works will be allowed to enter the public domain after that period. Works that are not renewed fall immediately into the public domain. If you check the register after twenty-eight years and the work has not been renewed, it is in the public domain.

Works that are renewed get the extra time. Now this is a conservative suggestion, too conservative in my view, though still better than what we have now. It would be hard to argue that it is not. This pretty much was the law in the United States until My system is a little simpler, but the broad strokes are the same. Since that point, in two broad stages, we have moved away from this system at the very moment in history when the Internet made it a particularly stupid idea to do so. How have we changed the system? We have given copyrights to the creator of any original work as soon as it is fixed, so that you, reader, are the author of thousands of copyrighted works.

Almost everything up on the Internet is copyrighted, even if its creators do not know that and would prefer it to be in the public domain. Imagine that you want to make a documentary and use a film clip that a student filmmaker has put up on his home page. Perhaps you are a collage artist who wishes to incorporate images that amateur artists have put online. None of the works are marked by a copyright symbol.

Certainly they are up on the Internet, but does that mean that they are available for reprinting, adaptation, or incorporation in a new work? In each of these cases, you simply do not know whether what you are doing is legal or not. Of course, you can take the risk, though that becomes less advisable if you want to share your work with others. Each broadening of the circle of sharing increases the value to society but also the legal danger to you.

What if you want to put the course materials on the Net, or publish the anthology, or display the movie? Perhaps you can try to persuade your publisher or employer or distributor to take the risk. Perhaps you can track down the authors of every piece you wish to use and puzzle through the way to get a legal release from them stating that they give you permission to use the work they did not even know they had copyright over. Or you can give up.

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Whatever happens, you waste time and effort in trying to figure out a way of getting around a system that is designed around neither your needs nor the needs of many of the people whose work you want to use. Apart from doing away with the need to indicate that you want your works to be copyrighted, we have lengthened the copyright term.

We did this without any credible evidence that it was necessary to encourage innovation. We have extended the terms of living and even of dead authors over works that have already been created. It is hard to argue that this was a necessary incentive, what with the works already existing and the authors often being dead.

We have done away with the need to renew the right. And, as I said before, we have made all those choices just when the Internet makes their costs particularly tragic. In sum, we have forgone the Library of Congress I described without even apparently realizing we were doing so. We have locked up most of twentieth-century culture and done it in a particularly inefficient and senseless way, creating vast costs in order to convey proportionally tiny benefits.

And all without much complaint from those who normally object to inefficient government subsidy programs. Worst of all, we have turned the system on its head. Copyright, intended to be the servant of creativity, a means of promoting access to information, is becoming an obstacle to both. That, then, is one example of the stakes of the debate over intellectual property policy. Unfortunately, the problem of copyright terms is just one example, one instance of a larger pattern. As I will try to show, this pattern is repeated again and again in patents, in trademarks, and elsewhere in copyright law.

In fact, in many cases, the reality is even worse: We could turn to the cutting edge of technology or to economics or information theory. But none of those would be as useful a starting place as a letter that was written about two hundred years ago, using a high-tech quill pen, about a subject far from the digital world. Further reading on those issues can be found in the relevant chapter. The single best starting point for someone who wishes to understand an economic perspective on intellectual property is William M.

Landes and Richard A. The story laid out in this chapter is one largely but not entirely focused on the idea of intellectual property rights offered as incentives—the carrot that induces the author to write, the inventor to research, the investor to fund that research, and the corporation to develop attractive and stable brand names that convey reliable information to consumers. This is conventionally known as the ex ante perspective.

But as the chapter also hints, intellectual property rights, like property rights in general, have a role after the innovation has occurred—facilitating its efficient exploitation, allowing inventors to disclose their inventions to prospective licensees without thereby losing control of them, and providing a state-constructed, neatly tied bundle of entitlements that can be efficiently traded in the market. Readers interested in these perspectives will benefit from looking at these articles: It is worth comparing Michael A. Heller and Rebecca S. National Academies Press, , — The skeptics argue that the alternative to a deeply commodified world of invention and innovation, with hundreds of thousands of licensing markets, is a rich information and innovation commons, from which all can draw freely, supporting a thin and well-defined layer of intellectual property rights close to the ultimate commercially viable innovation.

For some of the difficulties in the attempt to arrive at a coherent economic theory of intellectual property, see James Boyle, Shamans, Software, and Spleens: Harvard University Press, , 35— Finally, while I urge that at the outset we must care about the actual effects and economic incentives provided by intellectual property rights, I am by no means asserting that we should stop there.

Indeed to do so would dramatically impoverish our view of the world. Scott Kieff San Diego, Calif.: Elsevier Academic Press, , 97, — In other words, as all this suggests, this chapter is only an introduction to a rich and complex debate. Some find his penmanship a little hard to decipher.

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To me, used to plowing through the frenzied chicken tracks that law students produce during exams, it seems perfectly clear. I love the mushroom smell of gently rotting paper, the flaky crackle of manuscripts, and the surprise of matching style of handwriting with style of thought. Today, though, I am viewing his letter over the Internet on a computer screen. The details are [in the footnotes]. I think Jefferson would have been fascinated by the Internet. After all, this was the man whose library became the Library of Congress, [4] who exemplifies the notion of the brilliant dabbler in a hundred fields, whose own book collection was clearly a vital and much consulted part of his daily existence, and whose vision of politics celebrates the power of an informed citizenry.

In the letter to Isaac McPherson, a letter that has become very famous in the world of the digerati, [6] this joy becomes manifest. The initial subject of the correspondence seems far from the online world. Patents then, as now, were only supposed to be given for inventions that were novel, nonobvious, and useful. Now, turning to such books only as I happen to possess, I find abundant proof that this simple machinery has been in use from time immemorial.

The display of scholarship is effortless and without artifice. If the device existed to move water, he declares, Mr. Evans can hardly patent it to move grain. A compass was invented for navigating the sea; another could not have a patent right for using it to survey land. So far as we can tell, this was the only part of the letter that interested McPherson.

Later correspondence indicates that he had a pamphlet printed questioning the patent. It is when Jefferson turns to the idea of intellectual property itself that the letter becomes more than a historical curiosity. In a couple of pages, quickly jotted down on a humid August day in , he frames the issue as well as anyone has since. We are not used to starting every argument from first principles.

But it is in fact quite simple. It is society that creates property rights that go beyond mere occupancy. It does so for several reasons—reasons of both practicality and natural justice. Elsewhere in his writings, Jefferson expands on this point at greater length. One of those reasons has to do with the difficulty, perhaps even the impossibility, of two different people having full and unfettered ownership of the same piece of property simultaneously.

Another linked reason comes from the practicality of excluding others from our property, so that we can exploit it secure from the plunder or sloth of others. If I drink the milk, you cannot. Excludable property is, logically enough, property from which others can easily be excluded or kept out. But ideas seem to have neither of these characteristics. Those who quote the passage sometimes stop here, which is a shame, because it leaves the impression that Jefferson was unequivocally against intellectual property rights.

But that would be a considerable overstatement. When he says that inventions can never be the subject of property, he means a permanent and exclusive property right which, as a matter of natural right, no just government could abridge. However, inventions could be covered by temporary state-created monopolies instituted for the common good. In the lines immediately following the popularly quoted excerpt, Jefferson goes on:. So Jefferson gives us a classic set of cautions, cautions that we should be required to repeat, as police officers repeat the Miranda Warning to a suspect.

In this case, they should be repeated before we rush off into the world of intellectual property policy rather than before we talk to the police without our lawyers present. First, the stuff we cover with intellectual property rights has certain vital differences from the stuff we cover with tangible property rights. Partly because of those differences, Jefferson, like most of his successors in the United States, does not see intellectual property as a claim of natural right based on expended labor.

Instead it is a temporary state-created monopoly given to encourage further innovation. Third, intellectual property rights are not and should not be permanent; in fact they should be tightly limited in time and should not last a day longer than necessary to encourage the innovation in the first place.

Fifth, deciding whether to have an intellectual property system is only the first choice in a long series. This line-drawing task turns out to be very difficult. Without the cautions that Jefferson gave us it is impossible to do it well. And there are only two ways in which they can be remunerated. One of those ways is patronage; the other is copyright. Notice that it is the monopolistic quality of intellectual property that really disturbs Macaulay.

His was a generation of thinkers for whom the negative effect of monopolies of any kind and state-granted monopolies in particular was axiomatic. Macaulay agrees, tongue in cheek. These words from Jefferson and Macaulay encapsulate an eighteenth- and nineteenth-century free-trade skepticism about intellectual property, a skepticism that is widely, but not universally, believed to have played an important role in shaping the history of intellectual property in both the United States and the United Kingdom. Supreme Court has offered support for that position, [18] and, with one significant recent exception, [19] historians of intellectual property have agreed.

It is important to note, though, that the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century writers I have quoted were not against intellectual property. All of them—Jefferson, Madison, Smith, and Macaulay—could see good reason why intellectual property rights should be granted. They simply insisted on weighing the costs and benefits of a new right, each expansion of scope, each lengthening of the copyright term.

Again, I am struck by how seamlessly Macaulay coupled beautiful, evocative writing and careful, analytic argument. Admittedly, he was remarkable even in his own time, but it is hard to imagine a contemporary speechwriter, let alone a politician, coming up with Dr. Macaulay is not against using a lengthened copyright term to give an extra reward to writers, even if this would dramatically raise the price of books. What he objects to is dramatically raising the price of books written by long-dead authors in a way that benefits the authors hardly at all.

Though Macaulay won the debate over copyright term extension, it is worth noting here that his opponents triumphed in the end. As I pointed out in the last chapter, the copyright term in most of Europe and in the United States now lasts for the life of the author and an additional seventy years afterward, ten years more than the proposal which made Macaulay so indignant. I helped prepare an amicus brief in that case. Obviously the authors of existing works were given sufficient incentive to create; we know that because they did. Why do we need to give the people who now hold their copyrights another twenty years of monopoly?

This is all cost and no benefit. Macaulay would have been furious. When the Supreme Court heard the case, it was presented with a remarkable friend-of-the-court brief from seventeen economists, several of them Nobel laureates. They pointed out that copyright extension imposed enormous costs on the public and yet conveyed tiny advantages, if any, to the creator. Surely they would do little to encourage the dead, while imposing considerable costs of access on the living? The Court was unmoved by this and other arguments. It upheld the law. I will return to its decision at the end of the book.

The intellectual property skeptics had other concerns. Macaulay was particularly worried about the power that went with a transferable and inheritable monopoly. Censorious heirs or purchasers of the copyright might prevent the reprinting of a great work because they disagreed with its morals. This is no mere fantasy, Macaulay tells us. The public would lose, not because they had to pay exorbitant prices that denied some access to the work, but because the work would be altogether suppressed.

From more recent examples we can see that outright suppression is not the only thing to fear. At first they were successful. They see intellectual property rights not as an incentive, a method of encouraging the production and distribution of innovation, but as a natural or moral right. My book is mine because I wrote it, not because society or the law gives me some period of exclusivity over allowing the copying of its contents.

My invention is mine because it came from my brain, not because the law declares a twenty-year monopoly over its production or distribution. My logo is mine because I worked hard on it, not because the state grants me a trademark in order to lower search costs and prevent consumer confusion. In copyright, patent, and trademark law—despite occasional deviations—they have embraced the utilitarian view instead. Broadly speaking, that answer is correct. I think this answer is correct and important, but we have an obligation to go further.

Partly that is because intuitions about ownership coming naturally with labor or discovery continue to influence the law. Partly it is because those moral intuitions are important and appealing. Partly it is because we might wish to modify or criticize our current system. Using the views of the framers, or current law, to preempt discussion is unsatisfactory—even though those views are of particular importance for the legal policy decisions we face in the short run, the issues on which much of my argument is concentrated.

There are varying stated grounds for natural or moral rights in intellectual creations. Some people may think the book is mine because I worked on it—a Lockean conception where I mix my sweat with these words and receive a property right in the process.

For all its attractions, there are considerable difficulties with such a view. Jefferson, of course, thought that was particularly true for intellectual property rights. In that context, he felt the natural rights argument was much weaker and the need for socially defined purposive contours and limitations stronger. We do know that he had a strong antipathy to monopolies—particularly those affecting expression. He believed, for example, that giving publishers monopolies over great public domain books caused a disastrous fall in quality.

Instead, he argued, such books should be open for all to compete to produce the best edition. Of course, he was writing in the context of monopolistic printing privileges—to which he was strongly opposed—rather than of individual authorial rights. Yet he went further and suggested that even for contemporary works, after a particular time in print—say fifty years—books could be printed by anyone. This sounds like a strongly utilitarian argument, rather than one based on labor and natural right. Of course, we are not bound by what Locke or Jefferson thought. Still it is striking to see the turn to a utilitarian conception from both of them.

The Lockean tradition is not the only one, of course. Others believe that the property right stems from the unique personality of each individual—the configurations of your individual genius made manifest in the lines of your sonnet. Some limit the natural right to literary and expressive work; can a mousetrap or a drug molecule express the riddle and wonder of the human spirit? Whatever their moral basis or their ambit, the common ground between these positions is the belief in a rationale for intellectual property rights beyond the utilitarian concerns of Jefferson or Macaulay.

The norms embodied in the moral rights or natural rights tradition are deeply attractive—at least to me. Many of us feel a special connection to our expressive creations—even the humble ones such as a term paper or a birthday poem. The entitlement of an author to be correctly attributed, to have some control over the integrity of his work, seems important regardless of its utilitarian functions. Yet even as we find this claim attractive, we become aware of the need to find limiting principles to it. It gives us pause to think that Margaret Mitchell or her heirs could forbid someone parodying her work.

Are there no free-speech limitations? Then there is the question of length. How long is a natural right in expression or invention supposed to last? If the rights are truly formed for a nonutilitarian purpose, after all, why should they expire? The person who first acquires property rights in land by work or conquest passes those rights down to heirs and buyers with the chain of transmission reaching to the present day. Should copyright follow suit? We owe a large part of the literary moral rights tradition to the immediate aftermath of the French Revolution.

Publishers would have a guild-enforced monopoly over certain titles. Their right was against competing publishers printing the list of titles over which they had the privilege. The Revolution abolished these privileges and, at first, put nothing in their place. One such publisher was sternly instructed by the police in these terms:. More expansive conceptions of the rights of authors and, particularly, of publishers were also offered.

Even before the Revolution, publishers had been making the arguments that their privileges were a form of property rights and had the very good sense to hire the young Diderot to make those arguments. Hesse quotes his words:.

Authorial property, unlike property in land, adds to the common store rather than detracting from it. What could better satisfy this condition than a property right over a novel that did not exist before I wrote it? Diderot wanted perpetual copyrights for authors and, agreeably to his employers, a correspondingly perpetual printing privilege. But as Hesse points out, there was another view of literary property—a much more skeptical one put forward best by Condorcet.

Condorcet began by framing the question of literary property as one of political liberty. That is the question to resolve. One possible analogy is to the history of the fashion industry in the United States. It operates largely without design protection but relies heavily on the trademarks accorded to favored designers and brands. Condorcet also insisted that whatever protection was accorded to literary works must not extend to the ideas within them. In a line that Hesse rightly highlights, he declares that any privileges do not extend over facts or ideas.

In sum, Condorcet favors a limited privilege, circumscribed by an inquiry into its effects in promoting progress and enlightenment. This is very much within the tradition of Jefferson and Macaulay.

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On one side were Diderot and the publishers promoting an expansive and perpetual natural authorial right, which nevertheless was supposed to vest suspiciously easily in publishers. On the other was Condorcet, looking skeptically at authorial privileges as merely one type of state interference with free markets and the free circulation of books and ideas.

Different as they are, these two sides share a common ground. That is an account of the romantic theory of authorship in the context of contemporary Anglo-American copyright law. Hesse argues that this instability would continue through the revolutionary period. I agree; indeed I would argue that it does so to the present day. The answer is simple. The moral rights view simply proved too much. Without a limiting principle—of time, or scope, or effect—it seemed to presage a perpetual and expansive control of expressive creations, and perhaps of inventions. All of this was much clearer before the assimilation of literature to private enterprise.

This is the flip side of the arguments that Diderot and later Hugo put forward. Perhaps the romantic author does not create out of thin air. Perhaps he or she is deeply embedded in a literary, musical, cultural, or scientific tradition that would not flourish if treated as a set of permanently walled private plots. We see also the recognition that these two requirements are in fundamental tension. When it comes to reconciling that tension we must turn in part to utilitarian effects.

In short, we should pay attention to Jefferson and Macaulay and Condorcet, not just because their thoughts shaped the legal and philosophical traditions in which we now work—though that is particularly true in the case of the United States—but because they were right, or at least more right than the alternative. Of course, we could build a culture around a notion of natural, absolute, and permanent rights to invention and expression. It is not a world many of us would want to live in. There are exceptions of course.

Jefferson did not realize that while ideas cannot be owned, their expression can. I think this book can give you new ideas to think about. There is a lot of variety in this book for helping unleash ideas. I've only given it a read through at this point, but I have a huge list of the exercises that I would like to try out and have already learned a few things about different types of mediums.

Great for those people who want to start art journaling or intrested in multimedia art. Amy Runyen is my niece. She is all that and more. This book is a keeper for my library.

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There are so many words of wisdom, advice, and ideas. Don't like this particular idea or advice? Then turn the page. You will find something to motivate and inspire you Thank you Linda and Amy for such a wonderful book! I read it cover to cover and loved all the activities, the did you knows, the artist spotlights, etc. I can't say enough good about your book.

I am now going back through slowly to tab the pages of all the ideas I want to try, and those I want to refer to friends. I bought copies and gave them as valentine's gifts, donated one to the local high school, and can't wait for more opportunites to give the book as a gift. Artists everywhere will be clammering to get copies. I wasn't expecting much from this book My favorite projects were: One person found this helpful. See all 7 reviews. What other items do customers buy after viewing this item? There's a problem loading this menu right now.

In this exhibition he touched on different subjects including the human struggles, a recurring theme in his artwork. The featured works were presented in four categories: San Antonio College in Walnut, California. An artist discussion panel, led by art critic John Seed, was conducted in connection to the exhibition which included Cretara speaking on the creation of his work and the state of contemporary figurative art. Domenic Cretara is the subject of a three-part documentary film titled Painting Circumstantial Evidence by Adam Shanker. In a Summer review in American Arts Quarterly , Frederick Turner described Cretara as a "leading exponent of an important new movement in American art: Cretara was awarded a Fulbright grant in in order to fund his activities in Florence, Italy.

Then in Cretara was awarded a sister city grant by the city of Padua, Italy where he spent time studying the works by Giotto. In , his work and writings were included in the book "Portrait Painting Atelier" by Suzanne Brooker. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

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