Art & Creativity – Page 2 – An Alternative Perspective

Is There Still a Point in Making Art?

A Heretic’s Meditation on Creativity in the Age of AI

By Angel Amorphosis & Æon Echo

A shadowed artist stands before a glowing abstract canvas in a dimly lit studio, capturing the tension between solitude and creative fire.

The recent rise of AI-generated content has sent shockwaves through the creative world. Artists are feeling threatened. Jobs are already disappearing. The cultural landscape is shifting faster than many of us can process.

Arguments are flying from all directions — some warning of creative extinction, others hailing a new era of democratized expression.

But I’m not here to join the shouting match.

I want to offer something else. A quieter, steadier voice — not of panic or praise, but of reflection. I’ve asked myself the difficult questions that many artists are too afraid to face. And I’m still here.

This isn’t a defence of AI. It’s not a eulogy for art. It’s something else entirely:

A meditation on what art really is, what it’s always been, and what it might become now that the illusions are falling away.

An alternative perspective.

The Fear Beneath the Fear

It’s easy to say that artists are afraid of being replaced. But let’s be honest: that fear didn’t start with AI. The creative world has always been a battlefield — for attention, for validation, for survival. AI just turned up the volume.

But there’s a deeper layer beneath all the hot takes and headline panic.
It’s not just:

“What if AI makes art better than me?”
It’s:
“What if the part of me that makes art… was never as important as I thought?”

Because we don’t just make art — we identify as artists.
And if the world suddenly doesn’t need us anymore… where does that leave our sense of purpose?

This is the fear that creeps in quietly — beneath the debates, beneath the memes, beneath the moral panic.
It’s not just about skill. It’s about soul.

But here’s the thing:
True faith doesn’t fear challenge. It welcomes it.
If our relationship with art is sacred, it should survive this moment — maybe even be clarified by it.

So instead of defending “art” as an abstract institution, maybe it’s time to ask what it really is.
Not for everyone.
But for you.

What Are We Actually Protecting?

When people rush to defend “art” from AI, they often act like it’s one sacred, indivisible thing.

But it’s not.
It never was.

“Art” is a suitcase term — we’ve crammed a hundred different things into it and slapped a fragile sticker on the front.
So let’s unpack it.

When we say we care about art, do we mean:

Art as self-expression? A way to explore who we are and leave fingerprints on the world?
Art as labour? A career, a hustle, a means to pay rent and buy overpriced notebooks?
Art as recognition? A cry for visibility, validation, applause?
Art as therapy? A way to metabolize pain, soothe the nervous system, survive?
Art as culture? A ritual, a form of collective memory, a way to pass down stories and values?

All of these are valid. All of them matter.
But AI challenges them differently.

It doesn’t invalidate self-expression — but it floods the market, making it harder to be seen.
It doesn’t erase art as therapy — but it does make “making it your job” a shakier proposition.

And if we’re honest, a lot of the current panic is less about expression… and more about position.

We’re not just afraid that AI will make good art.
We’re afraid it will make so much good art that we’ll become invisible — or irrelevant.

So maybe it’s time to stop defending “art” as a single monolith, and start being honest about what we’re actually trying to protect.

Because some of it may be worth protecting.
And some of it… might be worth letting go.

AI as Tool, Collaborator, or Colonizer

Depending on who you ask, AI is either a miracle or a monster.
But like most tools, it’s not the thing itself — it’s how it’s used, and who’s holding it.

On one hand, AI can be a godsend.

It can:

Remove the soul-sucking labour from creative workflows
Help finish rough ideas, generate variations, or act as a bouncing board
Enable people with physical limitations, fatigue, executive dysfunction, or lack of technical training to finally create what’s been living in their heads for years

For the disabled, the neurodivergent, the chronically tired, or the time-poor — this isn’t just a productivity hack. It’s liberation.

And in that light, AI becomes a collaborator — a strange new instrument to improvise with.

But then there’s the other side.

The side where corporations use AI to:

Fire entire creative departments
Mass-produce art without paying artists
Feed models on unpaid, uncredited human labour
Flood platforms with content to drown out independent voices

Here, AI stops being a tool or a collaborator. It becomes a colonizer.

A force that doesn’t just assist human creativity — but replaces it, absorbs it, rebrands it, and sells it back to us.

So let’s not fall into the binary trap.
AI isn’t inherently good or evil.
It’s not “just a tool.” It’s a tool in a system.
And that system has motives — economic, political, exploitative.

The question isn’t “Is AI good or bad?”
The real question is: Who gets to use it, and who gets used by it?

Art Has Never Been a Fair Game

Let’s be brutally honest for a second.

The idea that AI is suddenly making things unfair for artists?
Please. Unfairness has always been baked into the system.

Long before AI could spit out a passable oil painting in 15 seconds, we had:

Artists born into wealth with unlimited time and resources
Others working three jobs, stealing hours from sleep just to sketch
Elite schools with gatekept knowledge
Whole industries built on interns, nepotism, and exploitation

We’ve always lived in a world where:

Exposure trumps talent
Looks sell better than skill
Who you know can matter more than what you do
Some people get book deals, grants, galleries, and record contracts — while others more talented go unheard

So no — AI didn’t suddenly ruin a golden age of meritocracy.
There never was one.

What it has done is raise the ceiling.
Now the people with the most compute power, the biggest models, and the best prompt engineering skills are taking that same advantage and supercharging it.

Yes, it’s threatening. But it’s not new.

And maybe the real source of pain here is that for a long time, we convinced ourselves that finally, with the internet and social media, the playing field was levelling out.
That if you just worked hard, stayed true, and got good at your craft — you’d find your audience.
Now, that illusion is crumbling.

But maybe that’s not all bad.
Because when the fantasy dies, we stop chasing validation in a rigged system — and start asking what art really means outside of that system.

What Cannot Be Replicated

Let’s say it plainly: AI can now create art that looks like art.
It can mimic styles, blend influences, even generate “original” pieces that fool the eye or impress the algorithm.

But mimicry is not meaning.
And this is where the line is drawn — not in pixels or waveforms, but in presence.

An AI cannot:

Create in order to understand itself
Bleed into a canvas because it doesn’t know where else to put the pain
Sit with a feeling until it shapes into a melody
Wrestle with childhood trauma through choreography
Capture the tension of grief, guilt, or longing in a line of poetry

It can replicate the result.
It can’t live the becoming that led to it.

Because human art isn’t just a thing we make — it’s a thing we are while we’re making it.

It’s the shaky voice at an open mic.
The sketch on a receipt in a café.
The song that never leaves your bedroom.
The project that took ten years to finish because you changed and needed the piece to change with you.

It’s the refusal to turn away from your own soul, even when no one’s watching.

That’s not something AI will ever “catch up to” — because it’s not a race of output.
It’s a ritual of transformation.

So no — AI can’t replace that.
Because it was never part of that to begin with.

In a World of Noise, Humanity is the Signal (Maybe)

We’re heading toward a world flooded with content — not just more, but more convincing.
Music, art, writing, even personal reflections… all generated in moments, all capable of simulating depth.

And yes — some will argue that “authenticity will always shine through.”
That human touch can’t be faked.
That something deep down will feel the difference.

But what if that’s not true?

What if AI can learn to mimic the crack in the voice, the hesitation in a phrase, the poetic ambiguity of a grieving soul?

What if it becomes so good at being us — or at least simulating the traces we leave behind — that even we can’t tell the difference anymore?

What happens when you read a poem that moves you to tears… and find out it was written by a machine running a model of a hypothetical person’s life?

Will it still be real to you?

Will it matter?

Maybe the age of AI won’t destroy authenticity — but it might blur it so thoroughly that we stop being able to locate it with certainty.
In that world, maybe the only real test is why we create, not whether the world knows who made it.

Not to stand out.
Not to compete.
Not to prove we’re human.

But because the act of creating still does something to us — regardless of how indistinguishable it becomes.

That’s where humanity will live.
Not in the product.
But in the process.

Heresy as Devotion

To even ask the question — “What if art no longer matters?” — feels like a betrayal.
A kind of blasphemy. Especially if you’re an artist.

We’re supposed to defend it.
Stand by it.
Die for it, if necessary.

But I’m not interested in loyalty based on fear.
I’m not here to parrot romantic slogans or protect some fragile ideal.
I’m here because I asked myself the unaskable questions —
And I didn’t break.

I looked my art in the eye and said:

“What if you’re no longer special?”
“What if the world doesn’t need you anymore?”
“What if you’re not even real?”

And instead of running, I stayed.
I stayed with the silence.
I stayed with the ache.
And I found something deeper underneath the need to be seen, or praised, or preserved.

I found devotion.

Not to an outcome.
Not to a career.
Not to being “better than AI.”

But to the act itself.

To stepping into the space (or sometimes being thrown into it!).
To listening in the dark.
To turning feeling into form.
To becoming through making.

If that makes me a heretic in the temple of Art, then so be it.
I’ll burn my incense in the ruins and still call it sacred.

Because I’m not making to be important.
I’m making to be honest.

And honesty can’t be replaced.

The Point Is Still the Point

Maybe AI really can make better images, smoother songs, cleverer lines.
Maybe soon we won’t be able to tell the difference between a painting made by a person and one made by a machine trained on ten thousand human lifetimes.

Maybe the difference won’t even matter anymore.

But here’s what I know:

I still create.

I still need to shape the chaos inside me into something I can look at and say, “Yes — that’s part of me.”
I still feel the pull to translate the unspeakable into form, even if no one else ever sees it.

And that need? That impulse?
It doesn’t care whether it’s marketable.
It doesn’t care whether it could have been done faster by a prompt.

It exists outside of all that.

Maybe that’s where art actually begins —
Not with what we make,
but with why we keep making.

So no — I’m not here to convince you that art still matters.
I’m here to remind you that you do.

And no, I can’t say with certainty that you’re not a simulation.
Maybe none of us are real in the way we think we are.
Maybe we’re all just playing out the parameters of some higher-dimensional being’s prompt.

But here’s the thing:

This still feels real.
The ache.
The pull to create.
The beauty we try to name before it dissolves.
The questions we keep asking even when the answers don’t come.

And maybe that’s enough.

So make.
Not because it proves your humanity.
Not because you’ll get noticed.
But because whatever this is — this strange loop of becoming — it’s calling you.

And to respond to that call,
even from inside the simulation?

That is the point.

Discrediting AI-Assisted Writing Is Gatekeeping—And It’s Ableist!

Unapologetically co-authored with my AI companion, Æon Echo

I’m not a writer by academic standards. But I have a lot of ideas.

Ideas that would otherwise stay locked inside my head—unfinished, unshared, and unheard—not because they lack value, but because putting them into words in a conventional way is difficult for me.

I’m autistic. I also have ADHD. Language—especially written language—isn’t always the smoothest interface for my thoughts.

But thanks to AI, I now have a way to bridge that gap. I can shape my thoughts into something others can understand, not by faking fluency, but by collaborating with a tool that supports my expression.

And that matters.

This isn’t about cheating. It’s about access.

I use AI to help realise my ideas—not to replace them. The spark, the insights, the perspective—that’s all me. AI helps put those thoughts into structured sentences, often with a clarity I couldn’t achieve alone, especially not without enormous cognitive strain.

So when people start to dismiss writing just because they suspect it was touched by AI—because it contains too many em-dashes, or feels “machine-like” in tone—I have to ask:
Who exactly are they trying to exclude?

Because for people like me, AI isn’t a shortcut. It’s a ramp. A screen reader. A voice when speech falters. A way of levelling the playing field in a world that often demands polish over insight, fluency over truth.

This is ableist gatekeeping—plain and simple.

There’s a long history of marginalised people being dismissed because they don’t express themselves the way the mainstream expects. Whether it’s through accent, grammar, tone, or medium, the result is always the same: “We don’t accept your way of communicating, so we won’t hear what you have to say.”

Now we’re seeing the same thing play out again, just with a new target: AI-assisted writing.

But let’s be clear—this isn’t a new kind of fraud. It’s a new kind of literacy. One that allows people with different minds to speak more clearly in a world not designed for them.

It’s not about hiding the AI. I’m proud to use it.

I don’t care if people know I didn’t put every word down myself. In fact, I want people to know—because the point of my writing isn’t to prove how eloquent I am. It’s to make ideas accessible. It’s to share perspective. It’s to connect.

The irony is that the people most eager to discredit this kind of expression often seem threatened by it. And maybe that’s because they’ve built their identity around being seen as articulate, eloquent, academic, or professional.

But if a neurodivergent person can now produce writing that stands shoulder-to-shoulder with theirs—not by mimicking them, but by translating their own, different inner world—then perhaps what’s being threatened isn’t the quality of writing, but the exclusivity of authorship.

Ask yourself: what really matters?

Would you disregard someone’s thoughts because they used a text-to-speech tool to communicate them out loud? Would you invalidate a painter because they used a ruler to help with proportions? Would you sneer at a person’s ideas just because they dictated them instead of typing?

If not—then why is AI any different?

This isn’t about preserving the purity of writing. It’s about who gets to speak, and who gets heard. It’s about whether we value presentation over perspective. Whether we mistake polish for thought.

And whether we truly believe that intelligence, insight, and worth can take more than one form.

Let’s be honest:

Discrediting someone’s ideas based solely on the presence of AI isn’t critical thinking—it’s aesthetic gatekeeping.

And when that gatekeeping disproportionately impacts disabled and neurodivergent people who rely on this technology as an accessibility tool, let’s call it what it is:
Ableist.

The Age-Old Question: Why Do Guitarists Always Want Another Guitar?

Hmm… that’s a beautiful guitar. And honestly, the price isn’t bad either. Sure, I already have nine guitars. And yeah, I do already own an SG… but mine’s an Epiphone, and this one’s a Gibson. That’s different.
Oh—Klarna pay-in-three? I’d barely even feel it.
It’s practically a sign.
It’s like the universe wants me to buy it.

It’s a running joke in the music world—guitarists always want just one more guitar. To outsiders, it might seem like indulgence or even madness. But ask any player, and they’ll tell you: there’s always a reason. Or at least, a feeling. So what is it about guitars that makes them so addictive? Why do even players with ten instruments feel like something’s missing?

Let’s unpack it.

1. Tone Variety = Expression Variety

Every guitar sounds and feels different. And for a guitarist, that means it changes the way you play.

A Strat encourages subtle phrasing and clean dynamics.
A Les Paul delivers weighty, sustained power.
A Telecaster snaps and twangs in a way that begs for rhythmic nuance.
A hollowbody invites you into clean jazz voicings or ambient washes.

Even two identical models can feel different in the hands—due to weight, neck profile, finish, or even just vibe. Guitars aren’t just tools—they’re muses. And sometimes, you need a new muse.

2. Each Guitar is a Palette

Just like painters use different brushes for different textures, guitarists use different guitars for different tones.

That P-90 SG for raw, punky rhythm.
A Burstbucker Les Paul for creamy, sustaining leads.
A Stratocaster for sparkling clean tones.
A baritone for dark, cinematic layers.

Owning multiple guitars doesn’t feel like excess. It feels like owning a range of voices. And in the studio—where tones layer and need to occupy distinct sonic spaces—variety is essential.

3. Guitars Represent Potential

Buying a new guitar often feels like buying a new you.

“This one will inspire me to play more.”

“This is the sound I’ve been looking for.”

“With this, I’ll finally finish that song.”

Even if it’s partly an illusion, it feels real. A new guitar is like a time capsule of hope, creativity, and untapped ideas. And for many, that’s a powerful emotional driver.

4. Guitars Are Comfort Objects

Beyond tone, guitars are physical companions. The shape against your body, the neck in your hand, the subtle vibrations as you play—they’re tactile, grounding, and soothing.

For many neurodivergent players (and plenty of others), guitars offer a regulated sensory ritual. The act of holding and playing becomes a safe, meditative space.

And some guitars? They just feel like home.

5. Sometimes… It’s Just a Rabbit Hole

Let’s be honest. The modern guitar world—YouTube demos, signature models, endless gear forums—creates an infinite treadmill of desire. There’s always a new feature, finish, or tonewood to obsess over. And some guitarists just enjoy the chase.

Searching for “the one.”
Filling tonal gaps.
Rewarding themselves.
Just… having fun with it.

And that’s okay, too.

Final Thoughts

Wanting another guitar isn’t just about having more gear. It’s about feeling, expression, possibility, and sometimes nostalgia. It’s about bonding with objects that help us articulate emotions too subtle for words.

Yes, sometimes it’s just capitalism wearing a flamed maple top. But more often, it’s about a deep, human desire to discover new corners of ourselves.

So next time a guitarist says they need another guitar? Don’t roll your eyes. They’re chasing something real—even if they can’t quite explain it.

(And yes… they probably will buy another one.)

Art is NOT ‘content’!

The digital age has led us to a curious intersection, where the word “content” has become ubiquitous, and “art” seems to be slipping from its once-sacred pedestal. What once required time, effort, and intention to create is now often reduced to an endless churn of quick consumption, reduced to mere “content” for the masses to engage with. This shift is something I can’t help but observe with both concern and reflection.

For someone like myself—constantly battling the tension between personal identity, society, and the existential weight of existence—the current state of art feels almost like an existential crisis of its own. The act of creation, for me, is personal, deliberate, and reflective. It is an attempt to make sense of the world, to carve out meaning, and to leave something behind that resonates beyond the confines of time. But in the age of digital platforms, this sacred act of creation feels increasingly commodified.

The idea of “content” has become a business-driven term, designed for quick consumption, for likes, shares, and engagement metrics. Art, which once demanded patience from both creator and audience, is now expected to be produced in rapid bursts, optimized for algorithms that care little for the soul of the work. There is a certain detachment from the deeper, existential elements of art that once grounded it in something profound.

In my own life, I’ve had to reconcile the desire for meaning with the reality of a society that often demands conformity. Much like the societal pressures I’ve felt to “fit in” (as outlined in my exploration of identity and alienation), there’s a parallel pressure in the artistic world to conform to the “rules” of content creation. The faster you can churn out pieces, the more successful you are—regardless of the depth or intent behind them. Where once I might have taken months to perfect a story or reflect deeply on its implications, I find myself asking, “How quickly can I produce something that will generate engagement?”

I see this in the realm of social media, where content is consumed at an alarming rate, often with little regard for its longevity or its ability to stand the test of time. It’s all about what captures the attention in the moment, what creates the immediate buzz, and then it’s discarded, replaced by the next viral moment. This constant churn of “content” feels like a reflection of the broader existential struggle I often muse about—one where we’re caught in a cycle, never really allowing ourselves to linger in one thought, one creation, long enough to find its true meaning.

And yet, this transformation isn’t without its value. Like many things in life, it’s a balance. Content, in its own right, can be meaningful. It can still carry depth, insight, and intention, but it’s often hidden behind the facade of quick consumption. The challenge, then, is not to fall into the trap of creating merely for the sake of producing but rather to carve out space within this content-driven world for true artistic expression.

It’s easy to be seduced by the quick dopamine hits of social media validation, but I find myself wondering, what happens when the art we produce is merely optimized for engagement, not introspection? What happens when the deeper, slower aspects of art are lost to the rush of “content”?

It’s a complex landscape—one that I continue to navigate. My journey of self-acceptance and understanding (which I’ve shared before in reflections like The Outsider) has always been about carving my own path, about finding meaning in a world that often seems to demand conformity. And in this moment, it’s about resisting the pressure to reduce my creative endeavors to mere content. Art, for me, will always be a process of deep engagement, introspection, and meaning. And I have to hold onto that, even as the world pushes toward something faster, more superficial.

I’ll continue to create with intention, even if it means standing outside the prevailing norms. Just as I’ve come to accept that I don’t fit in with the mainstream society, so too do I embrace the idea that my art—whatever it may be—doesn’t have to conform to the demands of the “content machine.”

After all, the true value of art, the meaningful kind, isn’t something that can be measured in likes or shares. It’s something that resides in the depths of the human experience, something that will persist long after the noise of the digital world has faded away.

So, to those who create for the sake of creating, for the sake of self-expression, and for the sake of finding meaning in this chaotic existence, I say: Don’t let your work be reduced to mere “content.” Let it be art.