A short rumination on art inspired by discussion at Cole Haddon’s site.
This, in case you did not follow the link, is a scene from Shane MacGowan’s memorial service. Shane MacGowan, for the heathen amongst you, was the front man and primary song-writer for The Pogues, an Irish band. MacGowan, after years of abusing himself, died too young. At his memorial service, people celebrated his life by performing his music. It was sad and joyful and comforting. Those are the purposes of art, after all. And that is the false promise of imitative AI ‘art’.
I think that at least some of the people who desperately want AI art to be as accepted as any other kind of art want that kind of response. If you read imitative AI art reddits, or see their discussions in social media, you can see them argue about “prompt plagiarism,” complaining that people are taking their prompts and not using their own “creativity.” Irony may not be dead, but it apparently is well-hidden.
I don't think these prompters understand that they will not get the appreciation, the connection, that they desire. MacGowan and the Pogues were loved because they produced music that was unique to them. Because it came from humans, it spoke to other humans in a way that imitative AI art really doesn't, not in any lasting form. MacGowan’s obsessions, quirks, history, and flaws all combined to produce music that moved people, not because of the specific arrangement of notes, but because of the specific, human emotions behind the notes.
Weekly Word Count
A couple thousand in the Pratchett meets Rockford Files novel. Not much, but it’s been a busy couple of weeks in my family and my job. But every little bit counts. I also did some restructuring of the abortion/tech story based on editor’s notes, so I am likely to spend a lot of time on that project in the near future, as that has a small publisher interested (interested, not purchasing, mind you — still a failed writer).
I also put the cloned student/school shooting play in a drawer. I wrote that with some constraints on purpose — small cast, two locations, etc. — in order to try and stretch myself. The consensus is that it simply does not work as a story in its current form. I know how to correct the piece, but the corrections mean exploding the constraints, and I am not interested in that now. I am likely to revisit it in the future, perhaps as a screenplay rather than a stage play, or maybe even a novel. But for now, while it does have perhaps my favorite character I have ever written, into the drawer it goes. Sometimes things don’t work. But that is the point of experiments, is it not? Even failed experiments, especially failed experiments, teach you something. So I wrote, I failed, and I learned. Hopefully, the next piece will be better.
Have a great weekend, everyone.