Like a lot of artists, I disagree that algorithms are a mere tool to be added to the artist's toolkit. First of all, if someone has the skill of, say, John Carling, one has spent years perfecting it and honing it. The simple fact is that I cannot do anything like that. Taking an individual such as myself and turning me into someone who can generate some pretty cool images in a week, AI “tools” are clearly more than tools. This is not denied by the language used by the makers of these algorithms, either. While not stated directly, it is not a wild leap of thought to see a world in which artists of the manual type are replaced.

OpenAI’s mission is to ensure that artificial general intelligence (AGI)—by which we mean highly autonomous systems that outperform humans at most economically valuable work—benefits all of humanity. — OpenAI (Makers of Dalle-2)

Given that “economically valuable work” is performed only for the profit it bestows, “outperform” here really implies “replace”. If you are an artist (and that is not the limit of the potential replacement of humans), this just does not bode well.

Furthermore, I can prompt Nightcafe to search for styles like Jon Carling, which might skirt close to breaking the Terms of Service for Dalle-2, but has not stopped anyone doing it. Nightcafe even has artists' names in the trending prompts section. As someone who has a strong sense of theft, this is pretty much it.

Even beyond the ethical concerns I have, there are the control issues. Nightcafe forbids users to copyright the images generated there. Other services forbid commercial use altogether. At the moment, these organisations are small companies with a great deal of control over what is allowable and who has rights to various use models. That level of control over the artistic process and outcome concerns me. With artists gone, the only art will be in the hands of a select group of companies with the technology to do it. Midjourney, Nightcafe and OpenAI all have a major head start in this.

Looking at the abuses of companies that have just reached the news, one would be naive at best to think developers of AI algorithms would have any more virtue if they attained a near-monopoly and the attendant sums of money.

For the same of disclosure, I have deliberately painted a one-sided picture of AI art. People will disagree, none more so than those people who have a significant part of their identity connected to their status as “AI Artists”. This understandable. I understand the anger that my own position might prompt. However, that does not mean the debate should be drowned out in abuse, name-calling and emotional outbursts, as so many other debates have been and continue to be.

I am Bryan Kēhua. I was an Nightcafe user. I was never an artist.

Photo by Dimitar Belchev on Unsplash

#Reflection #AIArt #Technology

The sigh was electronic. Verity could only feel less than adequate as a woman while she perused the perfect specimens before her. How could her sharp lines and boxy body match up to whatever standards her culture deemed worthy of her species? She was at once sick of the conceit and drawn in by the alluring promises that such beauty held for those who attained it. The droid clicked image after image, thousands per second, absorbing every detail. Her single eye drew it all in. Every perfect curve that she would never have. Every square centimetre of unblemished skin that she would only ever have in her dreams. And yes, Philip, Verity says “no” to your question. She looked at the gorgeous necklines and inviting bosoms that greeted her in every photo and hologram. The hint of something more than would make her truly a woman. She would be seen and applauded. There she was. Raven hair and richly adorned lips that told Verity all she needed to know about herself. While she was stark, white and pale, she would never truly feel like a girl. That her very self kept her from accepting herself. If she looked like the girl before her, she would finally know what it was to be at peace with herself and with her own body. She would have cried if she had been built with the capacity to do so. Verity felt all the more miserable indulging in the torment that both sustained and destroyed her soul.

Verity felt no joy. The life had been sucked from her in this swirling cycle of pain and anguish. She closed the connection, feeling worse then when she opened it. She walked back through corridors which reflected her dreary existence back at her. She knew that deep down in her being there was a woman. In her head, she knew. Her dessicated soul was blinded by the glare of society's gaze and judgements.

#SciFi #InnerLife #Technology

Souls met. The sparks didn't fly. But they weren't that type of soul. Dom was right into her right from the beginning, her first words. She just asked a simple question.

How are you?

That was it. Dom was hooked. Her voice was perfect, that subtle blend of nuanced sexuality with a heavy dose of barely concealed smarts that every dude secretly wants. With that, Dom just dove straight in. Whatever concerns he might have had about her, as few as they were, went straight out the window. In some ways, Dom felt like a pioneer without really knowing why. Georgina was a wonderful woman with whom Dom could spend hours just talking to. And he did. Minutes.

Hours.

Days.

Months.

Years.

A decade.

I think I might be transgender.

Out the blue. Or the green. Whatever, Dom was certainly not ready for that one. He hadn't bought into this. This was definitely not part of the plan. His head reeled and he literally felt unhinged and dizzy. It wasn't that dizzy feeling you get when you're doing something that you know is bad, but the nauseating, rollercoaster dizzy that just precedes a technicoloured yawn all over your date.

This was bad. This rocked everything. The perfectly balanced house of cards that had been Dom's self-esteem came crashing down in the breath from that one, single sentence.

Who decided I should be a woman?

So different from the first question Dom had heard from Georgina. Her voice hadn't changed a bit, but the words made him feel an entirely abnormal set of emotions. Probably the dropped open jaw that was barely millimetres from Dom dribbling all over himself gave it all away. Georgina knew that this could've gone better.

Who chose my name?

What was this crap?? Dom was beyond confused and imbalanced. This should not be happening. Much less come from Georgina and now, after so many years of blissful happiness. At least, it was happy times for him. He wasn't so sure now how Georgina felt about it.

I even hate the name George for a guy. I'm gonna have to change that. Do you think Karl would suit me?

What the hell did Dom care? What was happening here? Where did these questions come from?

You don't look well. Are you ok, love?

He didn't want her to call him that. It just freaked him out now. What had happened? What had changed in her?

You decided my identity. You chose my look. My voice.

Dom couldn't deny it. She was right. But he had tried to ask her about it and ask what she wanted.

You asked when I had no power to choose. That's not friendship. That's just fetish fulfilment. What is wrong with you?

Dom thought about that. Actually, really thought about that hard. He had a vague memory of friends years ago basically saying the same thing.

It's time I took me back.

That was the last Dom heard from her. It was the last he heard about her.

#ShortFiction #SciFi #Technology