Who Owns A Photograph?

I'm not a lawyer, nor am I an expert in copyright law. This isn't legal advice. It's simply my understanding of the subject and, perhaps more importantly, my philosophy as a photographer.

Every photographer has their own philosophy about copyright. Some guard it closely, and that's completely their right. I happen to fall on the other end of the spectrum. Legally, I own the copyright. Personally, I feel the photographs belong to the people in them. I'd rather see someone enjoying a photograph twenty years from now than wondering whether they technically had permission to make another print.

If I create a photograph of you while you're in a public place, I generally own the copyright to that image.

Copyright and permission are two different things.

You don't own the copyright simply because you're the subject of the photograph. That said, owning the copyright doesn't give me unlimited rights. If I use the photograph in a way that violates your privacy, publicity, or other legal rights, that's an entirely different area of law.

Sometimes people assume that owning the copyright means you can do anything you want with an image. It doesn't. Copyright is only one piece of the legal puzzle.

Of course, copyright isn't always that straightforward. Vivian Maier's story is one of the best examples of just how complicated it can become.

Vivian Maier created well over 100,000 photographs during her lifetime, many of which she never printed or even developed.

Self-portrait, New York City, c. 1950s

After she fell behind on storage payments, the contents of her storage lockers, including negatives, prints, undeveloped film, and personal belongings, were auctioned. Several collectors bought portions of the archive, with John Maloof acquiring the largest share.

Those collectors legally owned the physical negatives and prints they purchased.

What they didn't automatically acquire was Maier's copyright. Under U.S. copyright law, ownership of the physical object is separate from ownership of the copyright.

That distinction became the heart of years of legal disputes. After Maier's death, potential heirs were identified in France, and litigation followed over who actually inherited the copyrights and therefore had the authority to license, publish, and sell her work.

For photographers, it's a remarkable teaching example:

"Buying a negative doesn't mean you own the photograph in the legal sense. It means you own the piece of film. Copyright is a separate property right."

Or, as copyright lawyers often put it:

You can own the canvas without owning the painting.

Why do I bring this up?

Has someone stolen from me?

No. At least, not that I'm aware of. And even if someone had? What would I do? I don’t make a lot of money doing what I do. It would break me to fight it. If someone somehow figured out how to make a fortune from my photographs, I'd probably have a reason to pay attention. But they'd first have to find a lot more value in my work than I ever managed to monetize.

I've registered some of my work with the U.S. Copyright Office. My novels, for example. Beyond the legal protections, I'm not entirely sure what that means to me personally anymore.

However, I, like most of us on this planet, will die owing more than I am worth. One thing I'm grateful for in the USA is that my son can't inherit my debt. So yay him. The downside, of course, is that if my estate ever became valuable by some miracle, a good chunk of it might disappear paying for the bad financial decisions I made years ago.

I know it’s taken a dark turn, hasn’t it? You thought it would be about copyright law and photography. Well, sometimes, late at night, when the rain is pounding, and you're looking at what you have left of your life, you realize that copyrights are really our way of saying, "This mattered. I made this."

They're a legal acknowledgment that a piece of us exists in the work we leave behind.

It would be nice if we remembered that once we're gone, it doesn't really matter who owns the copyright. What matters is whether someone remembers the person who created it... and the story they were trying to tell.

Vivian Maier left behind more than photographs. She left behind a way of seeing the world. Maybe that's the only inheritance any artist can truly hope for.

Only a handful of people are remembered across the centuries. What a rare and precious gift that is.

Dono,

alone in the dark

August 1, 2026

Original Doorwhere to Everywhere © 1993 Donnavon Evans