Vir Heroicus Sublimis

The Case Against A.I. as a Means of Making Art

Vir Heroicus Sublimis, painting by Barnett Newman. Text by Author.

By now, a good many of you have commented on the meme shared by

Michael Woudenberg

, involving A.I., in contrast with a particular painting, Vir Heroicus Sublimis. I assume many more have seen this thread, even without commenting. For clarity, the meme is below:

The meme and the thread directly involved in the post, and now branching outward through restacking(s), has not once, inexplicably, mentioned the name of the artist. This is par for the course of memes, which disastrously lack context to the benefit of their own syndication. The painting displayed in the meme is by Barnett Newman, born in 1905 and died in 1970, by the way! The A.I. image, who knows…

I think the conversation has probably spiraled too far out, with too many opinions to properly entertain or respond to them all. So, I will respond mostly to Michael’s words, and venture into some of the comments as I see fit—there are just too many at this point to speak to them all.

A.I. does not make art. At least, in the way we have come to think about it, and not in the way that humanity has appreciated art in a spirited sense, since the drawings on the cave wall. It does, however, make pictures.

These pictures are viewable. They are printable, frameable, and are even possible to admire. They can be tinkered with, adjusted, and are the result of prompts. They can be pleasing to the eye, although I don’t typically find them to be, but that, of course, is just my opinion. A.I., for some reason, sure does love purple—although, I am sure it could be prompted out of it, with some tinkering. They can be used, are practical, in some sense.

It is no wonder in the damn age of scrolling, where there are an infinite amount of images shared across a screen, that we should confuse the act of painting, and therefore art making, with the technological production of mere imagery. We may place an equal value on the two, superficially, because both authentic painting and A.I imagery are reduced to equals, at the very least, through the mechanism of the computer screen. You can see both images, but cannot feel them, cannot stand in their presence. For A.I. created imagery, this means little to nothing. For painting, it is everything.

It is ironic that anyone should call A.I. art real when the “A” is well known to stand for Artificial. Name it under the flag it flies under, at least!

I can only assume Michael does this out of apathy. If one is apathetic about art, believes the lot of Modern art to be a con, a psyop, or much of art to be terrible, then that is what one would say. I don’t know where this common attitude comes from— “those bastards won’t fool me!…”
The ones down at the… museum?

An excerpt from the comments by

Jack Edward

:

A good question, to which Michael responds:

This is an interesting, yet irksome response. Clearly, the quotations around fine art are used to diminish the term, as if to say it does not exist. However—how many artists, romantics and poets would relish their work being described this way!

Peek-a-boo with a toddler! Bravo!

Michael, we may make a poet of you yet, if you are not careful! It is wonderful when someone stumbles upon beauty unknowingly. Although, your unawareness of the beauty and complimentary nature of your comparison above simply makes it ironic. In the whole of the thread, there was nothing that illuminated more your apathy towards wonder than this. However, I know you love your toddlers and love playing peek-a-boo with them. I’d bet the farm on it, so to speak.

It is often immaturity, the state of the child, the state of the childlike, that accompany creativity. To keep inside you, somewhere, the ability to play, to be silly, to be dumb, to be childlike, It is inextricably linked to the artistic, poetic, and humorous spirit. This is why so much art seeks to mimic that quality.

I will give you and whoever else a quick sense of what I mean:

Picasso painted Science and Charity (above) at the age of fifteen years old. And the piece below, in his eighties.

It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child. — Pablo Picasso

Indeed! The child cares nothing about the art world, the price of supplies or paintings, regional sales, auction records, praise from the rich. The child’s only care is the act of creating—creating in the moment, for the moment. For creativities sake. It is meditative, wonderful. If a man can go through his childhood to adulthood and not be hardened by the world, not be completely sullied by the ways of the world, can still see beauty in it, can still draw carelessly if he feels, then that is a victory. For many, this seems to only come with grandparenthood, where they allow themselves to be silly amongst grandchildren. Why? I don’t know, but I assume the young and the elderly have a bond that is sacred, beyond words.

Anyways, Picasso is not merely doodling, he is acting in defiance of the world and the ways in which we are forced to take the damn ride so seriously. It is a rebellion against the hardening of the heart, if I can put it that way. Finally, he had learned to play. Finally, he was liberated! No small feat, in my mind, anyhow.

I hope by now the readers of this, as well as you, Michael, will have it clear that I am much more invested in this conversation— in art, the act of creativity, the human spirit, then the lowly philistine types that have so generously populated your original thread with largely drive-by opinions and cheap pot shots at art. People that, one can sense, appreciate it none, whatever the painting, the prompt, etc. I don’t know a single person that cannot do that, if given the chance.

A.I., to many, is a mechanism of revenge. You think you are an artist? You think that is art? Well, goddamnit, I can be an artist, too! They are right, but not for A.I.’s sake. Not in the way they think they are right!

Art is not simply painting. It is not simply poetry. Or filmmaking, or storytelling. It is the expression of the human will. The wish to be loved, to give love, to seek a respite from our inherent doom (assured death), and to relate to others that we, and therefore they, are not alone.

Michael, this is important—

A computer cannot do that. It can, perhaps, render pictures. But it cannot mourn the death of a loved one or provide care to those that are in mourning. It cannot feel cold, fear, or aspire to anything. If A.I. is said to create art (which it does not), it can only be said to do so on the backs of the artists who have risked their lives to rebel against tyranny; their sanity in the face of isolation; their survival in the pursuit of their craft. A.I. must acknowledge, in a humane way, the shoulders on which it stands, and it cannot even do that genuinely, even when programmed to.

I am referring to those who stay up late, have starved for their art. Have tried, sometimes successfully, to invent beauty within themselves and through a craft. There is bad art. There is no “art”. Except when made by a computer. The crucial difference is a subtle one, but a very large one. This is to confuse or, at the very least, expose a faulty sense of priority you’ve given the term “art”.

Consider this, as a thought experiment: consider art as not a noun, but as an act. You seem to want to compare the final products of the two creations: A.I. versus human painting. When shoved together in the meme, we see them in their final states as simply images.

But A.I. has no fear of error, nor does it seek to express the sublime. It has no revelation, it does not bare its soul, for it has no soul—it does not feel trepidation nor does it feel itself vulnerable, a feeling that often arises when an artist is engaged in the act of soul baring. This is not limited to artists, but limited to those who are alive. The computer can make no useful commentary on the state of man, nor the state of itself. One cannot love, make love, or be loved by a robot or a computer. For those who think they can, I will not stop you. Perhaps it is all you can muster. Goddamn—I’d like to think not! At least, an elephant is alive!

That is the crucial difference in the act of making art versus the act of picture rendering. To not acknowledge the difference, or better yet, to not place a priority on the human process, is apathy of a kind. You are slapping eons of humanity in the face, and you do so quite smugly, it seems.

As for art you don’t like? What can I say? Freedom of expression, like freedom of speech, is all or nothing. People will, have, and will continue to make things you don’t like, write songs you don’t like, pen words you don’t like. I digress..

David Knickerbocker weighs in:

No way less creative! Why make art, when you can make speedy artificial art, says David. Well, David, this is inspiring. Thank you so much for that contribution! Why read a novel when you can read the Cliff’s Notes? Why learn to cook when you can throw all the contents of a dinner in a blender and rapidly concoct a cheeseburger smoothie? Why fall in love when you can shell out cash to a hooker? For fucks sake, David…

It is still early. You still have a fighting chance! You can mock the artist all you want, freely surrounding yourself with images that are artificially intelligent. Artificially emotional. With so much of this world being artificial, why not our intelligence?

Art is the last thing to stand guard. The human heart and the human spirit are fighting for its place among the technologists. How can mocking this be your instinct? I must say again, it is only in the root of apathy that blossoms such an ignorant flowering of disdain. You know damn well the difference, you just don’t care. There is still time. I root for the philistines when I can!

A.I. does not make art, because it has no will to. It has no courage. It has no fear of tyranny, no fear of death, no bruises nor injuries. No tears from the eyes! No tears in the maker, no tears in the observer! No heart! Therefore, no heart attack.¹

I would welcome a genuine, thoughtful response from you, Michael, if you have the time. I think I gave you at least an inkling on the subject, the depth of which you may have only intended to lightly pierce. Also, too, I have linked a number of writers that have expressed interest in the topic through comments, restacks, etc. They should feel welcome to respond as well.

I suspect I won’t get much from the philistine types who think A.I. is somehow comparable to human painting—apathy, at last, is a silent art, all of its own. Now, I have said all that and you still don’t have a clue what I actually think about the man’s painting!

We are all playing peek-a-boo. With humanity, tyrants, our very own limited nature, with the whole of it. Humanity, and therefore human art, as well as the human life, can vanish in an instant. A simple shrug of the shoulder of a star is all it takes.

Peek-a-boo, indeed!

JSV
6.6.2024

1. Now, to meet the maker, so to speak.

Barnett Newman, courtesy of Wikipedia

Barnett Newman (January 29, 1905 – July 4, 1970) was an American artist. He has been critically regarded as one of the major figures of abstract expressionism, and one of the foremost color field painters. His paintings explore the sense of place that viewers experience with art and incorporate simplistic forms to emphasize this feeling. Barnett Newman died in 1970 of a heart attack in New York City.

Nine years after Newman's death, his widow Annalee founded the Barnett Newman Foundation. The foundation functions as his official estate and serves "to encourage the study and understanding of Barnett Newman's life and works."

Newman was unappreciated as an artist for much of his life, being overlooked in favor of more colorful characters such as Jackson Pollock. The influential critic Clement Greenberg wrote enthusiastically about him, but it was not until the end of his life that he began to be taken seriously. He was, however, an important influence on many younger artists such as Donald Judd, Frank Stella and Bob Law.

—Sourced from Wikipedia