If Art is a Window Into the Soul, AI is a Shoddy Curtain
Livia Wendland explores how our relationship to creativity is changing in an age of algorithms, convenience, and AI-generated “smoothness.” Through personal reflection and cultural critique, she examines what gets lost when art becomes optimized — and why embracing imperfection remains a radical act.
From a young age, I knew I wanted to be an artist and a writer. There was a brief phase when I considered becoming a veterinarian, but I soon realized the job would involve, well, injured animals. Through art, I discovered I could create a vibrant world filled with beautiful, happy animals, and narrate their adventures with my mom acting as my loyal scribe. I treated the art store like a candy shop, and my most prized possession was a complete set of Faber-Castell colored pencils.
I was also very (arguably too) active online, finding art inspiration on Pinterest and gaining some minor popularity in art-centric social media circles. I watched tutorials on YouTube, posted pictures of my sketchbook on Instagram, and reblogged the work of other amateur artists on Tumblr.
I drew ravenously, like I need it to survive — as if I would sink without the creative momentum propelling me forward. I was completely immersed in the artistic process, caring little about the final result or the opinions of potential viewers. When adults asked to see my sketchbook, it felt as intrusive as asking to rifle through a personal diary.
The online world, by comparison, seemed like an anonymous safe haven where I could connect with others through the universal language of art, where it did not matter if my clothes were shabby and my grades were average. In the early 2010s, before the internet became the saturated influencer market we know today, it hosted increasingly niche and nerdy communities, housed in our pockets alongside gum wrappers and bike keys — tokens of an otherwise mundane reality.
At some point, my childlike creativity gave way to teenage insecurity, and I began reaching for my sketchbook less and less. This shift may have started when my school reduced funding for art classes and redirected its resources toward science, math, and technology initiatives — a subtle warning that, in the adult world, creative endeavors are rarely as well-rewarded as technical ones. It might have also started when I first noticed the likes I received on social media and became preoccupied with increasing those numbers.
Each Instagram heart felt like evidence that my efforts were worthwhile, that my talents were appreciated within my corner of the internet, especially since I was too shy to share my art with friends and family. The online visibility felt gratifying. I began to crave it, often tailoring my art to incite more of it.
I jumped onto art trends, participated in various “draw this in your style” challenges, and used all the right hashtags (#inktober was a favorite) to promote my work. I watched my follower count rise, plateau, and eventually plummet when I became too busy to sustain a consistent posting schedule.
I was impatient with my progress, outpaced by other hobbyists with pricier materials, better technology, and superior experience. Like many creatives in an age dominated by mass media and convenience culture, where Spotify playlists are AI-generated and bingeable TV shows are served up on an algorithmic silver platter, my passion for art was stifled by an internalized need for optimization and popular appeal, measured through online engagement and likes.
I started to wonder: if my art wasn’t good enough, what was the point of pursuing it?
“The authenticity was a sorry source of embarrassment. Life was gradually wrung dry from my drawings.”
Unwittingly, I had disengaged from the artistic process and begun viewing art as a product, rather than a practice in self-expression and connection. And, most damningly, I found the product to be underwhelming. The authenticity was a sorry source of embarrassment. Life was gradually wrung dry from my drawings.
Eventually, I put away my Faber-Castelles, and they became dusty with disuse.
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In his influential 1935 essay, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” German philosopher Walter Benjamin describes a significant shift in our relationship with modern art, which was brought about by technologies such as photography and film. For the first time, art could be mechanically reproduced and distributed from a distance, arriving directly into our homes from the printing press, factory assembly line, movie set, or recording studio, alongside other modern conveniences like running water, groceries, and electricity.
Mechanical reproduction has broadened the accessibility of art, allowing the average person to deepen their cultural knowledge and expand their artistic palette from the comfort of their couch. The internet, itself a technology of reproduction with its various social media and content-sharing features, enables undiscovered artists (such as a certain precocious teenage girl) to create their own platforms and gain recognition without relying on traditional industry gatekeepers for support or recognition.
However, mechanical reproduction also allows for the most pernicious aspects of consumerism to flourish, whereby companies seek to create products as quickly and cheaply as possible and turn a pretty penny in the process.
“Art and entertainment are stripped of any meaning that could be unrelatable or uncomfortable, and any literal or metaphorical sketch marks are erased for a sleek, polished appearance.”
Under capitalism, art is commodified on an unprecedented scale. Products are strategically designed to appeal to the broadest possible audience, maximizing potential profits. Art and entertainment are stripped of any meaning that could be unrelatable or uncomfortable, and any literal or metaphorical sketch marks are erased for a sleek, polished appearance. What remains is a blank canvas on which consumers can project their own preferences and interpretations.
The urge to kick your feet up and turn your brain off after a long shift at a dead-end job is one I can intimately relate to. In a world where the average person is overworked and underpaid (yet another symptom of capitalism), we demand easy pleasures that are quick and cheap: fast food, fast fashion, fast entertainment – a veritable cornucopia of plastic fabrics, takeaway food, and endless algorithmic content made for infinite scrolling.
We demand experiences that are smooth.
In his 2015 book “Saving Beauty,” German-Korean cultural theorist Byung-Chul Han defines smoothness as a cultural tendency towards products and aesthetics that are agreeable and easily digestible, swallowed by consumers like candyfloss – sweet, momentarily satisfying, but ultimately flavorless and insubstantial. This results in art that is carefully group-tested and algorithm-friendly, providing fertile ground for the planting of advertisements.
Genuine beauty, Han theorizes, is antithetical to smoothness. It does not incite consumerism or satisfy the passing attention of a viewer. Rather, genuine beauty invites admiration and contemplation. It urges us to savour unique peculiarities and seek new experiences. It encourages us to resist the temptation of quick convenience and to engage with the artistic process, nurturing authenticity even when it is raw and imperfect.
In this way, we rebel against smoothness through the ritual of art — art which is unafraid to take risks, to take a stance or explore a perspective which may be challenging or alienating to some consumers. Art, in other words, which comes from the soul.
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For a long time, the worst offense an online artist could commit was tracing over another person’s linework or outright stealing someone else's art and posting it on social media for likes, shares, and praise. As a child, I often read lengthy exposés with side-by-side image comparisons aiming to catch tracers in the act. I came across forum posts pleading for people to stop reposting others' works without giving credit. Artists began adding semi-transparent watermarks and signatures to their artworks as a final line of defense against theft.
Authenticity, insofar as an artwork is an original piece that aligns with the artist’s creative vision, has long been a matter of deep concern in the online art space. When digital art first became widespread, popularized through drawing tablets like the Wacom and computer installations like Adobe Photoshop, some people were worried about how these technologies would affect artistic integrity. Critics believed that digital art enabled users to cut corners, effectively doing much of the creative work for them.
Nowadays, the worst thing that an artist can be accused of is using generative artificial intelligence such as ChatGPT or Midjourney. The rise of generative AI has cast a looming shadow over the internet, heralded by a slew of poorly animated cat-themed soap operas and Ghibli-style selfies. While some embrace this technology, others view it with concern and apprehension.
Generative AI creates images and texts based on user prompts by recognizing patterns in vast datasets of existing online content. Concerns about the ethics of generative AI closely mirror those initial worries about digital art, with critics again arguing that the technology promotes artistic laziness. However, while digital art has been embraced and recognized as an industry standard, serving as a tool for professionals and hobbyists alike with its wide range of toolbox-like features, generative AI has continued to face significant condemnation from many artists.
The issue with AI is not that it presents a digital alternative to traditional mediums. The issue is also not that it lacks originality. Plenty of human-made art is unoriginal and derivative. Common criticisms of AI include its potential to spread misinformation due to unreliable fact-checking capabilities and its ability to generate fake audiovisual content. Concerns have also been raised about the negative environmental impacts of the energy consumed by AI software. Another significant issue is that AI models use the work of online artists and writers as data for machine learning without their knowledge or consent.
On a deeper level, generative AI reflects our culture of convenience and consumption. It is a timely microcosm of cold, calculative mass production.
We expect art to materialize instantaneously with just a snap — or more accurately, a tap — of our fingers. AI-generated art enables users to skip the creative process, avoiding the discomfort and patience required for genuine artistic endeavour. As a result, the content often feels hollow and uninhabited, since machines cannot connect with people on the other side of the screen or express any deeply held opinions or emotions.
In the world of generative AI, everything is rendered smooth. Lines become harmless and repetitive, rounding out any kinks or sharp edges. Colors are intensified to the point of causing eye strain. Facial features are softened and blurred into an indistinct, skin-toned liquid. What results is a derivative amalgamation of online content — a simulacrum of art devoid of soul or genuine effort. The term “slop” has been aptly coined to describe such content.
It is, of course, not the end of the world — or of art — if a stressed student uses ChatGPT to complete their essay or if an event organizer generates AI images for their promotional flyers. However, we should consider whether the student misses out on those midnight revelations that come from writing in a caffeine-fueled frenzy, and whether the organizer ever experiences the satisfaction of seeing their original designs emerge from the printer.
Meanwhile, companies are laying off writing staff in favor of cheaper AI solutions, people are turning to generative software instead of commissioning artwork from actual artists, and tech moguls only continue to amass more wealth.
And, to top it all off, your grandparents are suddenly enraptured by an endless stream of AI dribble on Facebook.
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I wish I could provide an easy solution, a convincing argument in defense of art to all those burnt-out students and would-be graphic designers. But maybe that’s the thing — there is no easy solution. We must choose, everyday, to reject convenience. We have to consciously pursue ritual, practice, and process.
“As I consumed more art, my tastes became increasingly defined and precise. I found myself in an awkward purgatory, stuck between the creative ambitions of a budding adult and the artistic skillset of a child.”
I am reminded once again of the moment I put away my colored pencils before sinking into an eight year art block. As I consumed more art, my tastes became increasingly defined and precise. I found myself in an awkward purgatory, stuck between the creative ambitions of a budding adult and the artistic skillset of a child. The ease of consuming online art made me forget the hard work put into each piece — the hours and days of effort that I could swipe past within seconds.
In the pursuit of perfection, I forgot that a sketch is meant to be rough around the edges.
Children understand this better than most adults. They approach art with a spontaneity and sincerity that we lose with age, smearing walls with finger paint and adorning fridges with their crayon drawings, all for the joy of creating. While I hope that age has improved our drawing skills (and if it hasn’t, that’s perfectly fine — making bad art isn’t a crime, but producing AI-generated slop is certainly a sin), we can still learn from our younger selves by embracing crooked lines and unique imperfections.
Art should not be convenient, smooth, or even beautiful. The creative process is time-consuming, uncomfortable, and often ugly. Behind every great painting is hundreds of hours of practice, unfinished work, and crumbled paper. True beauty, as defined by Han, requires concerted effort and an acceptance that the outcome may not be universally appealing.
And, like a creative child immersed in her sketchbook, we have to resist the urge to cringe away from our own vulnerability.
Writer by day and bartender by night, Livia Wendland is a Political Science graduate based in Amsterdam. Her work covers a wide range of topics, from local activism to niche internet subcultures. She aims to highlight the interplay between the personal and the political through social commentary and empathetic storytelling, always incorporating a touch of whimsy.