a draft of something I’m working on curious to know your thoughts
One day, entire novels will be written by Artificial Intelligence. And no matter how well-read and discerning you think you are, you won’t be able to tell. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s already happened. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sally Rooney is actually a flesh-clad cyborg with the brain of some as-yet released large language model fed purely on transcripts of middle-class dinner parties.
We can cry, we can whine. We can throw away our iPhones and struggle to T9 text on our dumb Nokias. It won’t do anything to stop the inexorable march towards Singularity.
Besides, what’s the use in going up against a rival that can write 100,000 words in a second? It might be shit but with such huge quantities of shit able to be thrown at the proverbial wall, by mere mathematical calculation, something is bound to stick.
Consider this:
Two identical bowls. Atom for atom exactly the same. One is made by a machine, the other, made by human hands. Which one has more value?
The correct answer is of course the human-made bowl.
You may say, What’s the difference? They’re exactly the same.
The same? Well, they look the same. They’re made out of the same stuff, they perform the exact same job. As things they are the same. But the world is not just a place of things and stuff. It’s a place of dreams and desires, of histories and potential.
The hand made bowl is imbued with a quality uniquely human. History is alive within the bowl. The years it took for the bowl-maker to perfect their craft exists in the curves, in the rounding of the lip and the depth of the foot it balances on.
The bowl retains its experience – birthed in some white-lit studio somewhere, maybe, with paint-blotted tables two metres wide; clay flecked aprons hanging on the wall. There was music playing, maybe, soft contemplative instrumentals – or, actually, there was silence, the only sound the splash of water as the bowl-maker moistened their caked fingers.
But you’re just imagining that.
Yeah. Exactly. The beauty of the bowl extends outside the realm of things and stuff. It hums with a numinous aura. It becomes a symbol of something, potentially intangible, unspeakable. How do you describe the feeling of running your thumb over a smooth piece of rock said to have fallen from a caveman’s necklace? It’s a feeling outside of time – it’s not just the past you touch, it’s the thoughts of the caveman, the ancient imagination manifest in your palm. You might say to yourself, If only the caveman could see it now, the hand it holds, me, the world in which surrounds it. Would he have ever imagined his stone would end up here?
That’s what human art can do. Every piece we create is a piece of ourselves broken off and offered up.