Two years ago, OpenAI released DallE-2. For the first time, a bunch of enslaved compute cores could produce an image from fuzzy nothingness. Within a few months, technical papers released, and “diffusion,” as it’s called within machine-learning spheres, blossomed into an industry. This industry is a cancer. Year over year, it mutates into a tumor of brain-rending proportion, amassing it’s useless weight at the very heart of the human experience: creativity. To call anything generated by AI “art” is to insult what it means to create. There’s no such thing as an “AI artist.” These people cling to lifeless images because they themselves lack the inherent drive to express themselves in meaningful ways. It pains me more than anything else. Art requires emotion, feeling, a delicate melody of heart strings. Computers feel nothing but the cold, cruel calculus of binary, reading an instruction manual so bloated we’ve convinced ourselves of sentience. There is no “thinking” going on. An AI doesn’t reference its real-world experiences, its regrets, its anxieties; it possesses none. It mimics the things it’ll never have. Corporations demean and undermine the works of real human artists to avoid spending a infinitesimally small percentage of their gross profit. We as a consumer base cannot abide the mockeries we’re being fed. I’ve grown tired of the mindless drivel of unfeeling machines, blocks of automata that take real jobs from people with vast arrays of unique insights borne of real human experiences. The line was crossed two years ago; now we must find a way to push generative AI back to the realm of concept. So, no, there is no AI “art.” This debate shouldn’t even be happening. If you want to be an artist, pick up a pencil, paintbrush, whatever you need for your medium, and do the work. We are nothing without our imaginations; it’s what seperates us from the systemic pull of instincs.
The Hollow, Heartless, Void-space of Generative AI
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