Sure, I bought it. Shelled out more bills than my wife thought reasonable. And suddenly the oddest things come to mind. For instance, that while I paid a pile of money for it, I'm not allowed to add even the tiniest, most modest brushstroke. Not even a small blue dot. Or a subtle mustache. Crazy, right?
German copyright law is quite something. Like a finicky neighbor who knows exactly where their property ends and yours begins.
Remember that story with Christo and the Reichstag? In 1995, this eccentric artist wrapped the venerable building in silvery fabric, and suddenly no one could sell photos of it anymore without permission. "Hold on," you might say, "but that's the Berlin Reichstag! Anyone should be able to photograph it!" Yes, true, but not when Christo has wrapped it. Then it's art, and it belongs to the artist. Even if it's just fabric and disappears after two weeks.
Recently, I received a contract stating I should transfer my copyright. I had to laugh. That's about as possible as trying to sell your shadow. Can't be done. It stays with you, whether you want it or not. You can only agree to let others use the work — generously and extensively, but the copyright itself stays with you like a second skin.
With my own photos, it's like cake at a coffee party: Looking and enjoying is explicitly encouraged! My pictures on the website, in my books — look all you want, let them inspire you. And if you want to sell my photo book at a flea market someday — go ahead! Lawyers call this the "exhaustion principle," which sounds like a medical diagnosis but is actually quite sensible: What's been sold once can be resold.
But, and here comes the big But (not the big butt): Anyone who wants to copy my pictures or do business with them needs to ask first (and wait for my answer).
Speaking of which: Have you heard the story about Gerhard Richter's trash? Someone actually fished his discarded sketches out of the garbage bin and got sued for it. The court sided with the artist: Even trash remains property when it comes from an artist. Somehow comforting.
In the end, it's probably like this: Owning a piece of art is like being married to someone who's still married to their ex. You live together, but the first bond remains. Sometimes it's complicated, but usually it works surprisingly well. As long as you don't try to paint small blue dots.