In today’s world, technology seems to have the solutions for virtually everything, from coding to design and everything in between. And truthfully, I’ve been largely alright with that. I understand how AI can be a tool to create a better future, one in which it is a collaborative partner that frees us up for more artistic pursuits. Because I truly believe if none of us needed to make money, we’d be a world of artists, painters, poets, and writers.
But what when AI itself portends to recreate art?
That reality is upon on, and it is a dangerous precipice we have stumbled upon: using artificial intelligence to mimic the deeply human act of artistic creation. The recent viral trend of generating Studio Ghibli-style images through AI is not just a plaything to revel in; it’s profoundly disrespect to the art of creation itself, and the care and love poured into art by its creators.
Consider the work of Hayao Miyazaki, a master animator whose films are not just visual spectacles but meditative journeys crafted with extraordinary care and more than a minute degree of love. Each frame in a Ghibli film is a deliberate breath, a carefully considered moment that invites viewers to pause, to feel, to connect. AI-generated images might capture the surface—the skies awash in colour, eyes agog with wonder and amazement, the pastel glow of the paintbrush—but they fundamentally miss the soul of artistic expression.
Art transcends mere technical reproduction. It’s about the essence of creativity. When you see an artists work, you might see an image. But step back and look closer, and you’ll see the bigger picture don’t just create images; they pour their lived experiences, emotions, cultural context, and personal struggles into every stroke. When we reduce their work to algorithmic patterns to be downloaded, remixed, and regenerated at will, we strip away the most fundamental aspect of art: its humanity.
Where do we draw the line? Do we resurrect musical legends like Lata Mangeshkar or Michael Jackson as AI-generated holograms? Should we allow algorithms to reimagine the surreal landscapes of Dali or the bold strokes of MF Hussain? These aren’t just images or sounds—they’re expressions of individual genius, cultural narratives, and personal journeys.
Artists spend years—sometimes decades—perfecting their craft. They sacrifice comfort, financial stability, and often personal relationships in pursuit of their vision. To suggest that an algorithm can replicate this process is not just naive; it’s insulting. It reduces years of emotional and technical labor to a few computational commands.
Miyazaki himself has been unequivocal about AI art, calling it “an insult to life itself.” His reaction isn’t rooted in technological fear but in a profound respect for the creative process. Art isn’t about perfect replication; it’s about imperfection, emotion, and the unique perspective of its creator.
Some might argue that AI is just another tool, like a paintbrush or a camera. But there’s a critical difference. A tool is an extension of human creativity; AI threatens to replace that creativity entirely. It doesn’t learn or feel—it merely processes and replicates.
Art won’t solve our world’s infrastructural challenges. It won’t fill potholes or eradicate public corruption. But art does something far more profound: it nourishes the human spirit. It challenges our perceptions, helps us understand complex emotions, and connects us across cultural and linguistic boundaries. This sacred function cannot be outsourced to machines.
We must recognize that not everything technological is progress. Sometimes, progress means knowing when to step back and preserve the sanctity of human creativity. Art is not a problem to be solved but a conversation to be cherished—a conversation that belongs exclusively to humans.
