Truth Decay

A good friend recently said in casual conversation about my recent work that I am an artist. I found myself deflecting this title, suggesting that I’m far from a true artist, instead I’m a wannabe artist at best. There is so much I have to learn about every art form I dabble in, and so much respect I have for the artists I look up to, dead or alive. The canyon I see between my work’s value and theirs is wide and exhausting to traverse. And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder, when does one even become an artist?

At what point will my work go from being kitsch, amateur scribbles to remarkable artwork? Surely it has little to nothing to do with one’s ability to make a profit, as any lifelong musician will tell you. And the secret to art cannot lie in pure quality, as artistic expression has long outgrown the rigid standards of its early development and historical influences. An artist must, then, be defined by their ability to create. And yes, they draw inspiration, they are influenced, and they compile ideas from places other than deep within their own (for lack of a better word) soul; but it is only through this beautiful harmony that ideas can exist beyond a single individual’s masturbatory frame of mind. So it is creation, yes, but through transformation.

I am unable to keep my sense of self from bleeding into the words I write or the pictures I draw, just as I cannot hide my true personality from my closest friends or family. I draw inspiration through the lens of my own interpretation of reality. This, I suppose, is what it means to be an artist. It is why every crude drawing of a fox from your childhood is as much a piece of art as a symphony you compose in your old age. It is why AI is incapable of recreating the spark that lies within each and every piece of art known to humankind. It lacks the sheer humanity to participate.

So, I guess, that means I am an artist. The merit of my work is another question entirely, but it’s a comforting feeling to know that artistic expression isn’t about money, or talent, or even hard work. It’s just about finding a way to say, as the years turn into decades and the decades into millennia, as generations are born and give birth to further generations, and you become but a distant memory in a new world, “Hey, I’m here, I’m human, and this is me.” Some say it to themselves and seek fulfilment. Others share their work with others, seeking validation or resonance with others. But the only thing you actually need to create art is a human experience to draw inspiration from. A human lens through which you see the world.

But make no mistake. Trying to define art is like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. In fact, it’s like trying to catch cancer with your bare hards. Impossible, yes, but also deeply misdirected. The question of what qualifies as and what doesn’t qualify as art has been pushed far beyond the limits you may expect. Dadaism and absurdist art for example show that any attempt to ‘break’ or ‘redefine’ art becomes a form of artistic expression itself. We should not be trying to gatekeep people’s use of AI to create art on the basis that it does not qualify as art.

Trust me. There are far better reasons to dismiss AI-artists than suggesting their work doesn’t qualify as artistic expression. And though I know it’s a very unpopular opinion amongst people against AI artwork like myself, we will not win that argument. Instead, allow it to do what shifts in collective consciousness have always done; allow it to inspire a new artistic movement that directly opposes the status quo. Take that frustration and use it to make something AI never could. And when they scramble to find a way to imitate whatever you create, take solace in knowing your artistry isn’t tied to any tool, but instead an intrinsic property of your human identity.