Working Beyond Eureka!
By Michael Penn MA'97
You may have heard of Carl Gulbrandsen as the man who holds the key to stem cells. But his often-unappreciated organization has a long history of helping researchers get their discoveries into the real world.
Paulanne Chelf recalls that once, during a meeting in late 1994, the researcher warned her what was coming. The man, then not yet forty years old, came to the offices of the Wisconsin Alumni Research Foundation, where Chelf works as an intellectual-property manager, to discuss patenting some new techniques he'd invented in his laboratory. He was tall and walked with a slight stoop, and he was relentlessly quiet, talking only reluctantly, as if he enjoyed nothing more than not talking.
It was at the end of the meeting that James Thomson looked at Chelf and said, matter-of-factly, "You know, this is going to be really big someday." At the time, Chelf didn't think much about the prediction. Thomson was still three years away from his historic work isolating human embryonic stem cells. In 1994, when Chelf was assigned to handle his patent case, he had accomplished the feat only in monkeys. And while she had worked for the foundation, known around campus as WARF, for only two months, Chelf had met with enough investigators to know that they sometimes got caught up in the optimism of their professions.
You may have heard of Carl Gulbrandsen as the man who holds the key to stem cells. But his often-unappreciated organization has a long history of helping researchers get their discoveries into the real world.
Paulanne Chelf recalls that once, during a meeting in late 1994, the researcher warned her what was coming. The man, then not yet forty years old, came to the offices of the Wisconsin Alumni Research Foundation, where Chelf works as an intellectual-property manager, to discuss patenting some new techniques he'd invented in his laboratory. He was tall and walked with a slight stoop, and he was relentlessly quiet, talking only reluctantly, as if he enjoyed nothing more than not talking.
It was at the end of the meeting that James Thomson looked at Chelf and said, matter-of-factly, "You know, this is going to be really big someday." At the time, Chelf didn't think much about the prediction. Thomson was still three years away from his historic work isolating human embryonic stem cells. In 1994, when Chelf was assigned to handle his patent case, he had accomplished the feat only in monkeys. And while she had worked for the foundation, known around campus as WARF, for only two months, Chelf had met with enough investigators to know that they sometimes got caught up in the optimism of their professions.
"Everybody thinks that their invention is the greatest thing that ever happened," she says. "It was one of dozens of disclosures I was working on at the time."
If Chelf has learned to temper the enthusiasm of UW-Madison inventors, however, she has also learned to bank on their abilities - a formula that has rarely failed her employer, which has been patenting and licensing UW research for more than seventy-five years. In his early discussions with WARF, Thomson was unequivocal in his belief that the techniques he'd used to isolate stem cells in rhesus monkeys and marmosets would also work in humans, potentially unlocking a treasure chest of new medical therapies. Based as much on his confidence as his results, WARF, as Thomson's designee to own and control his intellectual property, filed an application to patent the cultivation techniques for all primates, including humans.
By December 1998 - just three weeks after Thomson announced his lab's success with human stem cells - WARF had in its possession an exceedingly significant piece of paper. U.S. patent number 5,843,780 makes WARF one of the most important players in the future of stem cell science, giving it control over who uses Thomson's technology and for what purposes. Combined with a second patent (number 6,208,806) that was issued following Thomson's work with human cells, WARF has one of the most envied file cabinets in science. One London Times article said that those documents together form "one of the most potentially lucrative pieces of intellectual property in biomedicine."
If Chelf has learned to temper the enthusiasm of UW-Madison inventors, however, she has also learned to bank on their abilities - a formula that has rarely failed her employer, which has been patenting and licensing UW research for more than seventy-five years. In his early discussions with WARF, Thomson was unequivocal in his belief that the techniques he'd used to isolate stem cells in rhesus monkeys and marmosets would also work in humans, potentially unlocking a treasure chest of new medical therapies. Based as much on his confidence as his results, WARF, as Thomson's designee to own and control his intellectual property, filed an application to patent the cultivation techniques for all primates, including humans.
By December 1998 - just three weeks after Thomson announced his lab's success with human stem cells - WARF had in its possession an exceedingly significant piece of paper. U.S. patent number 5,843,780 makes WARF one of the most important players in the future of stem cell science, giving it control over who uses Thomson's technology and for what purposes. Combined with a second patent (number 6,208,806) that was issued following Thomson's work with human cells, WARF has one of the most envied file cabinets in science. One London Times article said that those documents together form "one of the most potentially lucrative pieces of intellectual property in biomedicine."
While owning valuable paperwork is nothing new for WARF - which currently holds about 1,700 active patents on UW-Madison research - getting noticed for it is. Since its founding by nine UW alumni in 1925, the nonprofit foundation has operated mostly below the radar, fulfilling its mission of protecting and commercializing the fruits of UW research with little fanfare. Before stem cell coverage landed WARF's name in the world press, many people confused it with the Wisconsin Alumni Association or the UW Foundation. (In fact, both of these organizations still occasionally get calls asking about their stem cell patent.) Now, a few national media have taken to calling WARF, somewhat ignominiously, the "800-pound gorilla" of stem cells.
The label is ironic, considering that stem cells are far from a ripe banana in the intellectual-property jungle. If there is a gorilla in the mist, it's WARF's formidable endowment, built from a long list of past patenting successes. Income from that fund is dedicated to enhancing UW-Madison research, and over the years, it has paid out more than $620 million. While WARF money makes up only about 5 percent of the university's total research budget, administrators regard it as the gear that drives the bigger wheels.
The label is ironic, considering that stem cells are far from a ripe banana in the intellectual-property jungle. If there is a gorilla in the mist, it's WARF's formidable endowment, built from a long list of past patenting successes. Income from that fund is dedicated to enhancing UW-Madison research, and over the years, it has paid out more than $620 million. While WARF money makes up only about 5 percent of the university's total research budget, administrators regard it as the gear that drives the bigger wheels.
"We consider it our margin of excellence," says Martin Cadwallader, interim dean of the Graduate School. John Jenkins MA'73, PhD'78 and David Cronon MA'49, PhD'53, authors of the official history of UW-Madison, go even further, writing, "WARF . . . is arguably the single most important reason why the University of Wisconsin emerged as one of the nation's great research universities in the second half of the twentieth century."
WARF's offices occupy the thirteenth floor of a high-rise building near the UW Hospital and Clinics, a location that affords a panorama of the campus WARF helped to build. The list of campus facilities constructed, renovated, or assisted by WARF is as extensive as the view, beginning with the Elvehjem Museum of Art on the far eastern fringe of campus, and sweeping all the way to the Waisman Center on the west.
The floor is usually abuzz. Faculty are often there, meeting with intellectual-property managers. Those managers meet with attorneys and licensing managers. The licensing managers meet with industry representatives. Moving inventions from the lab to the marketplace involves handshakes and conference rooms, and the air around WARF is tinged with imminent deal-making.
WARF's offices occupy the thirteenth floor of a high-rise building near the UW Hospital and Clinics, a location that affords a panorama of the campus WARF helped to build. The list of campus facilities constructed, renovated, or assisted by WARF is as extensive as the view, beginning with the Elvehjem Museum of Art on the far eastern fringe of campus, and sweeping all the way to the Waisman Center on the west.
The floor is usually abuzz. Faculty are often there, meeting with intellectual-property managers. Those managers meet with attorneys and licensing managers. The licensing managers meet with industry representatives. Moving inventions from the lab to the marketplace involves handshakes and conference rooms, and the air around WARF is tinged with imminent deal-making.
WARF's work begins at the moment after "Eureka!" As Chelf says, "When you break out the champagne in your laboratory - that's a good time to call us." Most of the researchers WARF sees have federal funding, and are required to disclose their inventions. Investigators who use federal money report their work to a campus office called University-Industry Relations, which routes the disclosures to WARF's intellectual-property managers. In about six cases out of ten, WARF decides that there is sufficient reason to go after patent rights, and it commences the long, often tumultuous, road to acquiring U.S. and foreign patents. Patents are almost never approved when they're first filed, and the negotiations can take years to resolve.
"It's a process of coming to agreement with the patent office over what you're entitled to," says Chelf, a former microbiologist who, like many of WARF's employees, is more or less bilingual, speaking the lingo of research as well as patent legalese.
"It's a process of coming to agreement with the patent office over what you're entitled to," says Chelf, a former microbiologist who, like many of WARF's employees, is more or less bilingual, speaking the lingo of research as well as patent legalese.
Patents essentially give their holders the right to operate as a government-protected monopoly for a designated period of time, usually twenty years from when a patent application is filed. It's a tradeoff: you, as the inventor, have to publicly disclose what you've done and how you did it, and in return, the government gives you a window of time to control your invention. Without your active enforcement, your patent isn't worth much. It doesn't legally include you in business related to your work - but it gives you the right to exclude others. It's up to you to take advantage of the protection, either by developing your invention yourself, or cutting deals with companies that will.
Thus, even when a patent is issued, it's too early to pop the champagne corks. To move research into the public sphere, WARF turns to its deal-makers. Even before the patent is in hand, licensing managers work out agreements with companies that want to use or sell the work. Typically, a company agrees to pay royalties to WARF for the right to commercialize the invention. Last year, the foundation signed more than one hundred such agreements, which could end up returning millions in income. Some of WARF's most lucrative patents over the years - which include vitamin D fortification techniques, magnetic resource imaging (MRI) technology, and the rat poison Warfarin - have been veritable gold mines during their active lives.
Thus, even when a patent is issued, it's too early to pop the champagne corks. To move research into the public sphere, WARF turns to its deal-makers. Even before the patent is in hand, licensing managers work out agreements with companies that want to use or sell the work. Typically, a company agrees to pay royalties to WARF for the right to commercialize the invention. Last year, the foundation signed more than one hundred such agreements, which could end up returning millions in income. Some of WARF's most lucrative patents over the years - which include vitamin D fortification techniques, magnetic resource imaging (MRI) technology, and the rat poison Warfarin - have been veritable gold mines during their active lives.
But Carl Gulbrandsen PhD'78, JD'81, WARF's managing director, says the foundation shouldn't be judged by the depth of its revenue stream alone. He says an equally important mission is to facilitate the flow of research from idea to finished product - to help it along its way to becoming a product or service that people need. WARF's stem cell patents, he says, are a good example. While many have voiced concern that the patents put WARF in a position to control the research, Gulbrandsen sees the patents as a way to assure that stem cell research won't be dictated by a small number of labs.
"One reason we have filed patent applications in some areas is to ensure that researchers here have freedom to operate," he says. "It takes the fun out of your research if somebody else owns it, and particularly if someone else can direct what you can do with it. If industry is going to own all the technology, and we're beholden to them to have rights to do the research, industry is going to set the agenda. If academia owns the technology, then academia can use it the way it wants to."
"One reason we have filed patent applications in some areas is to ensure that researchers here have freedom to operate," he says. "It takes the fun out of your research if somebody else owns it, and particularly if someone else can direct what you can do with it. If industry is going to own all the technology, and we're beholden to them to have rights to do the research, industry is going to set the agenda. If academia owns the technology, then academia can use it the way it wants to."
Say that a small biotech firm controlled the stem cell patent. That company could use its rights to muscle out researchers by refusing them access, or, more likely, by letting them work on material only after they've agreed to hand over anything valuable that might result. James Thomson says it's not merely a hypothetical scenario, but is precisely how many businesses routinely deal with academic researchers.
Some have argued that there's nothing stopping WARF from doing the same thing. Seth Shulman, in a November 2001 issue of MIT's Technology Review, suggests that WARF's stem cell patents could be used to close off the science from some researchers. "That outcome, desired by no one, would be the biggest - and sorriest - lesson of the debate," he writes. But Thomson doesn't see that happening. He points out that WARF is already distributing cells to scientists with almost no impediments to using them. (WARF does forbid scientists from using stem cells in cloning experiments.)
"This is true with any important new intellectual property - somebody controls it," Thomson says. "I'm very happy that WARF is the one. I think that WARF will control it in a very responsible way. I can't think of another institution that would be more responsible."
Some have argued that there's nothing stopping WARF from doing the same thing. Seth Shulman, in a November 2001 issue of MIT's Technology Review, suggests that WARF's stem cell patents could be used to close off the science from some researchers. "That outcome, desired by no one, would be the biggest - and sorriest - lesson of the debate," he writes. But Thomson doesn't see that happening. He points out that WARF is already distributing cells to scientists with almost no impediments to using them. (WARF does forbid scientists from using stem cells in cloning experiments.)
"This is true with any important new intellectual property - somebody controls it," Thomson says. "I'm very happy that WARF is the one. I think that WARF will control it in a very responsible way. I can't think of another institution that would be more responsible."
The argument may seem paradoxical: how can the exclusionary rights afforded by patents actually assist the spread of research? But that, basically, is what the founders of WARF intended. In fact, it's possible that WARF may not have come to be if some early inventors had been more willing to take the money and run.
"A country without a good patent office and good patent laws was just a crab, and couldn't travel any ways but sideways and backways," wrote Mark Twain, in A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. Through Hank Morgan, the Yankee of Yankees, Twain, a patent holder himself, voiced the progressive enthusiasm that the United States has long held about its patent system. With roots in the U.S. Constitution, patent laws have formidable history behind them. Created to spur innovation, while discouraging companies from hiding important discoveries, the first U.S. patent laws went on the books in 1790. Abraham Lincoln once said of patents: "The patent system added the fuel of interest to the fire of genius."
Many university researchers in the days of Twain and Lincoln, however, saw patents as antithetical to their role as public scholars. UW-Madison professor Stephen Babcock, for one, thought it wholly inconceivable that he, or a university, might profit from work that was primarily paid for by the public. In 1890, when Babcock developed the nation's first effective method for testing the butterfat content of milk, he dismissed any notion of patenting the process, insisting that it be shared freely with all.
"A country without a good patent office and good patent laws was just a crab, and couldn't travel any ways but sideways and backways," wrote Mark Twain, in A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. Through Hank Morgan, the Yankee of Yankees, Twain, a patent holder himself, voiced the progressive enthusiasm that the United States has long held about its patent system. With roots in the U.S. Constitution, patent laws have formidable history behind them. Created to spur innovation, while discouraging companies from hiding important discoveries, the first U.S. patent laws went on the books in 1790. Abraham Lincoln once said of patents: "The patent system added the fuel of interest to the fire of genius."
Many university researchers in the days of Twain and Lincoln, however, saw patents as antithetical to their role as public scholars. UW-Madison professor Stephen Babcock, for one, thought it wholly inconceivable that he, or a university, might profit from work that was primarily paid for by the public. In 1890, when Babcock developed the nation's first effective method for testing the butterfat content of milk, he dismissed any notion of patenting the process, insisting that it be shared freely with all.
Babcock's noble gesture resulted in chaos. Eager to meet high demand among dairies for the new Babcock tests, dozens of manufacturers began developing the testing equipment. Many did haphazard work, using improperly calibrated equipment and poor-quality materials that broke easily. Most of those "Babcock tests" failed to work, which diluted confidence in Babcock's invention. And there was nothing Babcock or the university could do about it, because they'd given the technology away with no conditions.
"The dairy industry was thrown into disarray," wrote Clay Schoenfeld, a UW emeritus professor who studied WARF's history. "Not until several state legislatures stepped in with standardization regulations did the Babcock test achieve its potential." Babcock, terribly embarrassed and discouraged by the episode, reportedly said late in his career that he wished that he had patented the test, so that he could have regulated the shysters.
"The dairy industry was thrown into disarray," wrote Clay Schoenfeld, a UW emeritus professor who studied WARF's history. "Not until several state legislatures stepped in with standardization regulations did the Babcock test achieve its potential." Babcock, terribly embarrassed and discouraged by the episode, reportedly said late in his career that he wished that he had patented the test, so that he could have regulated the shysters.
Three decades later, UW biochemist Harry Steenbock devised a method for enriching the vitamin D content of food, a technique that he realized could effectively wipe out the disease rickets. Steenbock, who was a young professor when Babcock's test hit the market, worried that a similar debacle might occur with his research. "He was hearing from cigarette companies and beer manufacturers, who wanted to use the process to put vitamin D in their products," says Hector DeLuca MS'53, PhD'55, a biochemistry professor who was Steenbock's last graduate student. "Harry knew that there was no way that these kinds of things would benefit mankind."
Neither, however, did Steenbock want to control patents himself or wish to see any personal profit from the work. (In fact, he had just turned down $900,000 to sell the invention to Quaker Oats.) Instead, he came up with a truly revolutionary idea: WARF. A campus-based patent office, he reasoned, could both control his technology and funnel proceeds back into the laboratories responsible for producing it in the first place. With the help of George Haight, a Chicago patent attorney who was then president of the Wisconsin Alumni Association, Steenbock proposed an independently operating foundation, the first of its kind affiliated with a university. In 1925, he and eight other alumni each contributed $100 as an endowment - funds that still appear on WARF's ledger as "dues paid in."
Neither, however, did Steenbock want to control patents himself or wish to see any personal profit from the work. (In fact, he had just turned down $900,000 to sell the invention to Quaker Oats.) Instead, he came up with a truly revolutionary idea: WARF. A campus-based patent office, he reasoned, could both control his technology and funnel proceeds back into the laboratories responsible for producing it in the first place. With the help of George Haight, a Chicago patent attorney who was then president of the Wisconsin Alumni Association, Steenbock proposed an independently operating foundation, the first of its kind affiliated with a university. In 1925, he and eight other alumni each contributed $100 as an endowment - funds that still appear on WARF's ledger as "dues paid in."
During the first ten years, WARF had returned more than $17 million from Steenbock's vitamin D patents, and had seen rickets virtually eliminated in the United States. And all that despite turning down the first people who came seeking to license Steenbock's work; WARF said no thanks to a firm that wanted to make vitamin D-rich cigarettes.
Since that time, WARF has patented everything from potato variants to mechanical gizmos to advanced laboratory techniques. In 1999, WARF fielded 279 inventions - the third-most of any U.S. university agency - up from 136 in 1994. Gulbrandsen says the growth is a confluence of two factors: University researchers are producing more, and they're also discovering what Babcock and Steenbock realized - that a patent, in the right hands, can be a faculty member's best friend.
"WARF is by far the best vehicle around for bringing new technology forward," says Mark Cook, a professor of animal science who has patented inventions both through WARF and on his own. Because much of Cook's work is privately funded, he has the option to pursue patents elsewhere, but he takes technology to WARF almost exclusively now. He says he grew tired of investing the exorbitant time and effort it takes to apply for and protect patents, only to see them mismanaged and his work fail to find a market.
Since that time, WARF has patented everything from potato variants to mechanical gizmos to advanced laboratory techniques. In 1999, WARF fielded 279 inventions - the third-most of any U.S. university agency - up from 136 in 1994. Gulbrandsen says the growth is a confluence of two factors: University researchers are producing more, and they're also discovering what Babcock and Steenbock realized - that a patent, in the right hands, can be a faculty member's best friend.
"WARF is by far the best vehicle around for bringing new technology forward," says Mark Cook, a professor of animal science who has patented inventions both through WARF and on his own. Because much of Cook's work is privately funded, he has the option to pursue patents elsewhere, but he takes technology to WARF almost exclusively now. He says he grew tired of investing the exorbitant time and effort it takes to apply for and protect patents, only to see them mismanaged and his work fail to find a market.
"Everything that I've ever done outside of WARF has never amounted to a hill of beans," he says.
"You want to be sure that your inventions are used in the right way, and one way to do that is to be very careful about whom you license your work to," adds DeLuca, one of the university's most prolific inventors, who has held more than one thousand patents during his career. "Patenting puts the invention into the hands of the public that was responsible for developing it."
At seventy years old, Hector DeLuca is WARF's past, present, and future, wrapped up in one bundle of relentless energy. Many of his laboratory breakthroughs have sparked the development of new pharmaceuticals and nutritional aids, and income from his work more or less built the $36 million wing of Biochemistry, where he operates his lab. As Gulbrandsen says, "He owns a piece of the rock."
"You want to be sure that your inventions are used in the right way, and one way to do that is to be very careful about whom you license your work to," adds DeLuca, one of the university's most prolific inventors, who has held more than one thousand patents during his career. "Patenting puts the invention into the hands of the public that was responsible for developing it."
At seventy years old, Hector DeLuca is WARF's past, present, and future, wrapped up in one bundle of relentless energy. Many of his laboratory breakthroughs have sparked the development of new pharmaceuticals and nutritional aids, and income from his work more or less built the $36 million wing of Biochemistry, where he operates his lab. As Gulbrandsen says, "He owns a piece of the rock."
The seemingly ageless professor recently hosted WARF officials on a tour of the new facility, which was completed in 1998. "It was like a father showing off his kids," says Andy Cohn '70, MS'74, WARF's director of public affairs. "He knew every student who walked by. He knew every cranny of that building." But DeLuca was also showing off something else - just how broad the ripple effect of patents is on campus.
During the 1930s, when the Depression virtually evaporated all federal research funding, WARF income was a life line to departments such as biochemistry. While other universities languished, the UW tapped into its WARF purse to hire away their best students and faculty. In biochemistry, DeLuca says, UW boasted nearly every top researcher. "No other schools had any money to support them," he says.
The same pattern exists today. Because of WARF money, says interim graduate dean Cadwallader, "we can respond to opportunities that come up in ways that school or college budgets might not allow," such as the impromptu purchase of lab equipment to help land a faculty recruit or to secure a grant.
During the 1930s, when the Depression virtually evaporated all federal research funding, WARF income was a life line to departments such as biochemistry. While other universities languished, the UW tapped into its WARF purse to hire away their best students and faculty. In biochemistry, DeLuca says, UW boasted nearly every top researcher. "No other schools had any money to support them," he says.
The same pattern exists today. Because of WARF money, says interim graduate dean Cadwallader, "we can respond to opportunities that come up in ways that school or college budgets might not allow," such as the impromptu purchase of lab equipment to help land a faculty recruit or to secure a grant.
Similar fingerprints can be found throughout the campus. Although most lucrative patents have come from the sciences, WARF's income does not play favorites. Under its current formula, the inventor gets 20 percent of royalties from WARF patents, and the rest goes into an investment fund. The foundation's annual contributions to the university, now exceeding $35 million, support faculty grants and graduate student fellowships in every division, as well as a diverse menu of building projects and other initiatives. The best part, says Cadwallader, is that the money is flexible. WARF dictates only that it be used in ways consistent with its mission to advance research.
The university often uses WARF income to speculate on young researchers with promising ideas. "You often need seed money to run pilot experiments before you can apply for big federal dollars," says Cadwallader. "If you go to them with an idea and no empirical back-up, it's a much harder sell." Several projects have followed this path to major grants, he says.
"There's no question," Cadwallader says. "If we didn't have WARF, we would certainly lose more than the $35 million that they give us."
The university often uses WARF income to speculate on young researchers with promising ideas. "You often need seed money to run pilot experiments before you can apply for big federal dollars," says Cadwallader. "If you go to them with an idea and no empirical back-up, it's a much harder sell." Several projects have followed this path to major grants, he says.
"There's no question," Cadwallader says. "If we didn't have WARF, we would certainly lose more than the $35 million that they give us."
Among the losses in a world without WARF would likely be DeLuca himself. His maturity as a researcher came during the 1960s and early 1970s, when all inventions produced with public money normally reverted to government ownership. DeLuca says the system made it next to impossible to find private sources willing to put money into his research, since they couldn't be assured of licensing rights to any resulting products. "No company is going to invest in research and development unless it can see that its ability to make money from that investment will be protected," he says.
WARF forged special agreements with government agencies, allowing the foundation to own the patent and negotiate directly with companies to license DeLuca's work. The arrangement became a model for the Bayh-Dole Act, which Congress passed in 1980. Coincidentally, it was that law that convinced many educational institutions to dive into managing patents, spurring universities across the country to seek WARF's advice on how to set up similar organizations. "For university technology transfer generally, [the law] has been a very wonderful and valuable success for the entire country," says Gulbrandsen. "But we were already operating as if it existed."
WARF forged special agreements with government agencies, allowing the foundation to own the patent and negotiate directly with companies to license DeLuca's work. The arrangement became a model for the Bayh-Dole Act, which Congress passed in 1980. Coincidentally, it was that law that convinced many educational institutions to dive into managing patents, spurring universities across the country to seek WARF's advice on how to set up similar organizations. "For university technology transfer generally, [the law] has been a very wonderful and valuable success for the entire country," says Gulbrandsen. "But we were already operating as if it existed."
Since Bayh-Dole, DeLuca has seen the landscape of technology transfer completely transformed. Where once he was among the few professors who actively engaged the patent process, today there are hundreds who bring their own entrepreneurial vision to their work. WARF's clients now include people like Nicholas Abbott, a chemical engineer who has devised a series of sensors that detect biological and chemical agents. Abbott took a business short-course to learn how to develop his technology and has now launched a start-up business. WARF helped him land patents on his work - and then license them to his own firm.
"I'd very much like to see the work translate into technology that has an impact on society," he says. "We've developed this to the point that we can publish our work in about whatever journal we want. I think we all find it very satisfying to see the technology translated into products that are useful."
To help the new generation of faculty like Abbott, WARF holds seminars and has assembled a Web site on patenting (www.warf.ws). But it's not just newbies who are prowling WARF's hallways. Not to be outdone, DeLuca now has a start-up company, and he visits the thirteenth-floor offices weekly to massage details and peruse contracts with attorneys.
"I'd very much like to see the work translate into technology that has an impact on society," he says. "We've developed this to the point that we can publish our work in about whatever journal we want. I think we all find it very satisfying to see the technology translated into products that are useful."
To help the new generation of faculty like Abbott, WARF holds seminars and has assembled a Web site on patenting (www.warf.ws). But it's not just newbies who are prowling WARF's hallways. Not to be outdone, DeLuca now has a start-up company, and he visits the thirteenth-floor offices weekly to massage details and peruse contracts with attorneys.
"I have a few products that I wholeheartedly believe should be in the hands of the public, and I want to make sure that they get there," he says.
DeLuca, like many professors, considers patenting an alternative form of publishing. Because patents are public disclosures, they carry an element of teaching to them. "You have to enable the invention so that others can repeat it," says Thomson. "That is the best part about patents." And compared to the often snail-like pace of academic publishing, the patent process can look comparatively swift. Mark Cook recalls an instance when he accidentally discussed an invention with a reporter, not realizing that the patent application hadn't been filed. (Disclosure of an invention starts the clock on U.S. patents and could invalidate patent claims entirely in some countries.)
"I called WARF and said, 'You've got until the evening news to get it done.' They got it filed by five o'clock," Cook says. "WARF can move very quickly if it needs to." Just never sideways and backways, but only ahead, traveling on toward the next big thing. Michael Penn, senior editor of On Wisconsin, spent most of the time he worked on this story trying to think of things he could patent.
DeLuca, like many professors, considers patenting an alternative form of publishing. Because patents are public disclosures, they carry an element of teaching to them. "You have to enable the invention so that others can repeat it," says Thomson. "That is the best part about patents." And compared to the often snail-like pace of academic publishing, the patent process can look comparatively swift. Mark Cook recalls an instance when he accidentally discussed an invention with a reporter, not realizing that the patent application hadn't been filed. (Disclosure of an invention starts the clock on U.S. patents and could invalidate patent claims entirely in some countries.)
"I called WARF and said, 'You've got until the evening news to get it done.' They got it filed by five o'clock," Cook says. "WARF can move very quickly if it needs to." Just never sideways and backways, but only ahead, traveling on toward the next big thing. Michael Penn, senior editor of On Wisconsin, spent most of the time he worked on this story trying to think of things he could patent.
