Copyleft: Art That Belongs to the People

“I used to put people like that on a pedestal, thinking they were doing these amazing things, but then I realized that I can do this too, anyone can do it. It’s accessible, and we can all create in ways that work for us.”
Ali Cat

Ali Cat is a printmaker and artist based in Portland, Oregon, whose work beautifully blends art and activism. A cultural worker and anarchist, Ali seeks to transform the tradition of printmaking, using it not only as an art form but also as a way of sharing ideas and making those ideas accessible to a wider audience. Their practice embraces the power of reproducibility—whether through risograph prints, clothing, tapestries, buttons, or banners—allowing the work to spread, resonate, and have a tangible impact. I’ve often seen Ali’s illustrations, particularly in the form of woodcut prints and buttons, being sold at various fundraisers for Gaza aid in the city since last year. What sets Ali apart is their commitment to making art that is freely available: on their website, you’ll find a collection of downloadable graphics that anyone can use, remix, and repurpose for their own creative projects. In this conversation, we dive into Ali’s approach to art and explore how it challenges traditional notions of ownership, value, and accessibility in the art world. We’ll also consider the question: Where do we want our art to exist in the world today?

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Simeen Anjum: Ali, it seems like much of your work is deeply connected to the community, especially with pieces that can be used in protests and are sold in local businesses. Can you talk more about how your work exists and interacts with the city and the world around you?

Ali Cat: I come from a punk rock background, so I was always around political prints and that kind of art growing up. When I started learning printmaking, I was creating “copyleft” and anti-copyright pieces. It made me realize I could create art for the commons—pieces that others could access and print for themselves.

It’s been a balancing act of figuring out how to support myself in a capitalist system, while also giving away work and creating pieces that are free and accessible. It’s a reciprocal process—people support your work, and in turn, you’re trying to support them.

Simeen: What is “copyleft”? I am curious how that works.

Ali: “Copyleft” is a concept where I choose not to copyright my work. Instead, it’s shared under an open license, with some limitations. Essentially, no one can sell my work for profit—so, for instance, a company like Disney couldn’t take one of my pieces and use it commercially. However, people are free to use, share, and reproduce my work for non-commercial purposes. They can print it in a free zine, use it for a flyer, or incorporate it into a community project. The goal is to make the work part of the commons—accessible to everyone and used for the collective good, without the restrictions of traditional copyright.

Simeen: That’s really interesting—being thoughtful about how we want our work to exist in the world and be more “for” the people. How does an artist go about implementing something like “copyleft” in their practice, and what has that process looked like for you?

Ali: There are websites where you can specify what you’re allowing with your work. For example, some people might allow reproduction and sharing, but not printing. Others might restrict commercial use but leave everything else open. I actually learned about this concept and got inspired by zines and punk rock culture, where “copyleft” was already being practiced in literature and ephemera. In the art world, Justseeds is a good example of this. I’m not sure if you’re familiar with them.

They were really inspiring to me when I was in art school. I even interviewed one of their members, Roger Peets, who I admired for how they worked in the art world. We later both worked at a nonprofit print studio together, and I realized, “Oh, you’re just a person.” I used to put people like that on a pedestal, thinking they were doing these amazing things, but then I realized that I can do this too, anyone can do it. It’s accessible, and we can all create in ways that work for us.

Simeen: What are your thoughts on this idea of putting artists on pedestals? There’s often this mystification of artists, where they’re seen as distant or somehow better than others. How did you decide to approach things differently?

Ali: I’m an anarchist so I’m against hierarchies. Then I went to this fancy art school, and I quickly realized it was built to make people put each other on pedestals and feel like some were more important than others.

I remember during the tours for new students, I was asked what I thought about going to art school, and I said, “I don’t think anyone needs to go to art school to be an artist.” And That’s not the answer they wanted to hear.

I had to reconcile what I was learning in art school with my own beliefs and figure out what worked for me. It’s not that you can’t go to art school or get a degree and still be a radical artist—those aren’t mutually exclusive. But it’s something you have to unlearn or call out, and then do what feels right for you.

The idea of putting people on pedestals just feels strange to me, and I try not to do it myself. I definitely get caught up in thinking, “Wow, that person seems so cool,” but then I meet them and realize they’re just a person like anyone else. Everyone’s just a regular person, and I don’t want to be around people who think they’re better than others. We all just want to support each other, share, and build community together.

Simeen: Totally. It made me think about how, in art schools, we’re often taught to market ourselves in a certain way, which ties into this hierarchy. Do you think language plays a role in that? I mean, the way we’re taught to speak about or write about our work—using certain kinds of language, sometimes complex or even pretentious jargon—does that contribute to reinforcing this hierarchy? At times, it can even make art seem impossible to understand for people outside those circles.

Ali: Language definitely plays a role, whether it’s the work being presented in English, where it’s coming from, or who’s given opportunities. We’ve been working to make spaces like white-walled galleries more accessible, not just for rich white men, as they’ve historically been. But the bigger question is: why does art even need to exist in those kinds of spaces? Sure, you can diversify it and market people as “tokens” of representation, but the real question is, who’s actually attending these spaces? Regular people don’t typically go to white-walled galleries.

Similarly, the language used in these spaces often isn’t something people can relate to or understand. That’s something I try to focus on in my work—using both imagery and text to make things clear. I don’t want it to be some vague idea where people think they understand what’s being said. For example, when I say we’re against occupation, I don’t want it to be misunderstood as just some abstract peace concept. The imagery can carry meaning, but the words also carry weight, and I try to use both together to make the message as clear as possible.

Simeen: Definitely. And thinking about what you said about galleries—they shouldn’t be the only place where art exists. What are your dreams for where you’d want your work to live, outside of typical art institutions? If it could be anywhere, what would that look like?

Ali: I’d love for my work to be in the streets, in community spaces—places where people gather, like zine libraries or third spaces, libraries or political organizations.

For example, I’m part of a stitching circle called SWANA Stitch, and we recently had a show. But it wasn’t a typical gallery show—it was in a community space. Everyone who participated in the show was actively involved in making it happen. It felt different from a gallery show, where there’s a curator and a sense of hierarchy, with the curator being the “professional” and the artists being the ones handing over their work. In our space, we gathered in a circle and asked, “What do we all think about how we display this work?” The space felt alive—there were teachings and workshops happening alongside the art.

There was art on the wall, sure, but the focus wasn’t on “fine art” or selling things. It wasn’t about wine and cheese and discussing how much something costs. It felt more like a living, breathing space where everyone was engaging with the work, not just standing behind a rope, admiring from a distance like you would in a museum. That separation, that gap between the viewer and the work—it’s something I don’t want for my art.

I know there are installations where you get to interact with the art, but even then, you’re still in a gallery, and there’s a certain behavior you’re expected to adhere to. It just doesn’t feel as alive or connected. And I don’t want my work in that kind of space.

Simeen: You’re clearly intentional about making your art more accessible, ensuring it’s easily available to those who may want or benefit from it. How do you view your work in terms of reproducibility?

Ali: I think there’s a bit of a distinction to be made. We’re living in a time where mass production is so prevalent. For example, there are websites where you can get things printed, and it raises the question—are they printed or reproduced? There’s something special about a handmade piece, even when it’s reproduced. It’s the difference between someone carefully reproducing their work, like in screen printing, versus just sending it off to a factory on the other side of the world, where it’s mass-produced and shipped back to you. While both kinds of work often end up in similar places, there’s a special quality to the process of printing it yourself. It’s just not the same as factory printing.

In printmaking, there’s this idea of assigning market value to rarity. You’ve probably seen editions, where prints are numbered to create the perception of scarcity. I’ve always pushed back against that, especially in college, because I see it as a relatively new European tradition. For example, if there are only 20 prints, they must be valuable because they’re rare, while prints with larger runs are seen as less important or cheaper. But to me, that’s a false value based on the concept of scarcity. I don’t edition my work because of that. If I run out of a print, I simply make more.

Simeen: I’m really glad we’re living in a time where art isn’t just this rare, untouchable object, but something for everyone to experience and engage with. I love that as artists, we’re starting to think differently about the role of art and how we share it.

Ali: Yeah, and with that, we also need to create our own systems. We have to be able to support artists who are supporting our communities and movements, not just by paying them. For example, when things get tough, and artists are still passionate about creating accessible art—even if that sometimes means working for free—we have to ensure they have a community safety net. They shouldn’t have to worry about being kicked out of their apartment or not being able to buy food. We need to build those kinds of support systems within our communities.

Everyone is right on the edge so often. I think it’s especially hard for artists to justify their work, to prove that it’s important and that it sustains us in different ways. 

Simeen: Definitely. As an artist, you have to think about how your work sparks action and educates people. You have to be intentional about how it supports the people it is made for. For example, if you create work about Palestine, you have to think about how it is being put to use: Is it being distributed for free? Is it fundraising for material aid? Am I monetizing it, or gaining opportunities based on the movement? We have to actively think about how we are building and contributing to these systems of people and supporting the people. It’s much harder to find your place and create work that genuinely supports the community, especially when it’s tied to important causes.

Ali: It’s about being part of a community and building relationships. Often, artists can get caught up in just responding to a situation or focusing solely on the aesthetic. In my opinion, you shouldn’t create work about something you’re disconnected from without taking the time to truly understand it. For example, in our community, there’s been a lot of use of the watermelon as a symbol. But the watermelon became significant because Palestinians couldn’t fly their flag, so they used it as a substitute. We can fly a flag, so why is the flag not more commonly used in our art?

People might say, “It’s cute,” but that’s not a strong enough reason. The watermelon isn’t just a random symbol of Palestine—it has deep cultural significance, like the oranges or other foods that are tied to Palestinian heritage. The watermelon was a response to a specific circumstance. So, it’s about educating ourselves and each other, building relationships, and understanding that this process takes time. It’s not easy, but it’s necessary.

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Simeen is an artist and curator based in Portland, Oregon. She is currently interested in exploring the possibilities of education and learning within art spaces. As a curator, she works with local artists to create shows that are engaging, inclusive, and provide space for people to connect with artists about their larger practices, thoughts, and processes, rather than just viewing art as objects. As an artist, she imagines alternative modes of existence and belonging in public spaces, which often take the form of singing groups, building a nap room in a mall, hosting a sky-watching party, among many other things.

Ali Cat is a printmaker, cultural worker, and steward of collective memory living in Portland, Oregon. Ali received her BFA from Pacific Northwest College of Art and has extensive experience working in various print studios. They produce their work under the name Entangled Roots Press. Their creations take the form of risograph prints, clothing, tapestries, buttons, zines, and prints on paper and fabric. Ali currently teaches and volunteers at the Independent Publishing Resource Center and also volunteers at the SWANA Rose Culture + Community Center.