Category: art

AI’s Missing Context: Why We Create

A robot smokes a cigarette while struggling to write its novel on a fucked up typewriter.

In October, 2023 Wired published a piece from the author Vauhini Vara titled, “Confessions of a Viral AI Writer.” In the essay, Vara discusses her experiments with AI, how it’s generated content has gotten purposefully worse over time, and dives into the different perspectives on AI’s use.

Specifically, she cites conversations with authors that use AI as a tool to facilitate their writing process. One author and literary critic, Adam Dalva, uses DALL-E to generate scenes that he’s imagining, then uses that as a reference for his writing. Another author, Jenny Xie, uses AI to generate parts of her narrative. Outside of Vara’s examples, I’ve heard of authors using AI to write the parts they struggle with or, in some cases, just don’t like writing. Descriptions of scenery, descriptions of people–mostly description that is necessary to paint a scene for a reader but is only ever tangentially related to the story.

Vara goes on to discuss Roland Barthes’ essay, “The Death of the Author” within the context of AI. The essay discusses the oftentimes vast difference in reader interpretation vs. author intent, and argues that the reader interpretation is more important. If this is true, then something like ChatGPT can generate something tailored to a specific reader, rendering an author useless at best, unnecessary at worse. Some people, like a mother Vara references in the essay, have already taken that step:

“But what if I, the writer, don’t matter? I joined a Slack channel for people using Sudowrite and scrolled through the comments. One caught my eye, posted by a mother who didn’t like the bookstore options for stories to read to her little boy. She was using the product to compose her own adventure tale for him. Maybe, I realized, these products that are supposedly built for writers will actually be of more interest to readers.”

– Vauhini Vara, “Confessions of a Viral AI Writer”

Vara touches on several other perspectives in her essay and ultimately concludes that AI lacks the human touch that separates art from product. This made me think of the tens of thousands of words I’ve read about AI over the past two years, and how few of them have talked about why readers read, and why writers write.

There are plenty of dangers with AI–the loss of creative opportunities for genuine artists, the commercialization of art, rich tech bros becoming richer off of stolen work and poor product, the degradation of literature and, ultimately, language, etc.–but one I haven’t seen grappled with is the loss of human-to-human connection. The reason I read and write is to connect with people. After language was invented, storytelling was one of the first things people did. What does it mean for our connections across time and distance if everything we read is partially or even fully a machine construct made up of recycled material?

The value of storytelling is in its perspective (something that Vara discusses in her essay), which, by its nature, is something AI cannot have regardless of how much data it is trained on. We read stories (or essays, or newspaper articles, or memoirs, or histories, or whatever) to immerse ourselves in a different perspective. Writing has always connected us. It’s how we know what it was like living in 1500s Spain. It’s how we know, in a very real, detailed way, what it was like to be a slave. It’s how we exchange information, ideas, and experiences. On more than one occasion writing has changed the world. These things happened because the person behind the writing synthesized their perspective, their experience, their morals, their humanity onto a page for others to pick up and see themselves in.

If authors start heavily using AI to generate their content, or if readers use AI to create individually tailored stories for themselves, eventually the only content AI will have to continuously train itself will be content generated by other AIs. This could realize and actual version of the dead internet. The experiences and perspectives that we’ll read in AI-generated literature will no longer reflect who we are. It may, at best, reflect who we were. But even that is probably a stretch.

I’m not one of those people that thinks AI has no place in authorial pursuits. I think it’s a tool that can be used well or can be used poorly. What worries me is the all or nothing thinking from the consumer, and the replacement mindset of the tech bros. My sole reason for reading and writing is to connect with other people. To learn from them, to understand them better, to feel like I’m not so alone.

I don’t want to see a future where that connection is lost.

Why Do We Tell Stories?

A bunch of stories.

In thinking about the type of writer I want to be, I’ve begun to consider what attracts people to stories. Obviously, there are a lot of different genres, each with its own audience expectations to be fulfilled. Beyond that, there is high-brow and low-brow entertainment, right? Your WAR AND PEACE and your TWILIGHT. I’m not talking about either of these things, as those are just a matter of preference. What, at a fundamental, elemental, atomic level attracts us to storytelling? What are we searching for in stories?

To be clear, there’s probably no universal answer. Just like genre or high-brow / low-brow art, different people search for different things in their stories. So, I can really only speak to what I want in a story, and what all the writing advice I’ve consumed tells me most other people want in their stories. Things like story structure, the “Hero’s Journey,” and other classic storytelling traditions aren’t accidents. They work.

In my opinion, people like me, MR(S). EVERY(WO)MAN, seek out things that reflect us and give us resolution. Let’s talk it out.

REFLECTION

People are vain, self-absorbed creatures, which is why we only ever tell stories about ourselves. Even stories with non-human characters assign them human traits. Emotions that are not natural to an animal, for example, like envy. When there is a purposefully inhuman character, it’s more of a contrast than a true other. Spock, for example, is an alien character whose primary trait is a lack of emotion.

There are lots of reasons for this, not the least of which is that stories are told by people. In that fact alone we’re limited by our experiences. If, somehow, we came across a story that showed truly alien things we probably wouldn’t even be able to recognize it as a story.

But reflection is more than a limitation on our experience. In fact, I think it’s the opposite. We tell stories that reflect us because they help us to understand ourselves. As far as we know, we’re the only creatures in the Universe that are consciousness of our consciousness. That’s confusing! We understand our own mortality, we have notions of abstractions like “justice” and seek order in an inherently chaotic world.

Reflecting our emotions, our social structures, our politics, our dynamics, our everything back to ourselves through art and storytelling helps us to make sense of it. To pull it apart a little bit and put it back together in a different, perhaps better way. We want stories to reflect ourselves not only because we relate to it, but because we want to better understand ourselves.

RESOLUTION

I don’t believe we only want to better understand ourselves. In some sense, I think story helps us to enact some control over things we inherently have little to no control over.

Every day new mysteries come and go, in our personal lives and in whole societies. The sock that goes missing. The serial killer that goes uncaught. The $5 bill you found in jeans that you don’t remember wearing. The thought-extinct fish that suddenly shows up on shore.

It’s rare we get answers to these things. Our lives are an increasingly silly machine we’re building piece-by-piece, with little insight into its inner-workings. Stories give us the opportunity to step inside the machine and swap out its parts so that all the pieces fit.

In that sense, I think stories are about resolution. The happy ending. The mystery solved. The family gaining closure, either through understanding or not. In life things are rarely explained, and things rarely end conclusively. Storytelling gives us that satisfaction.

***

These are the conclusions I’ve come to as I’ve thought about the type of stories I want to tell, and the types of stories I think people want to hear. It may sound obvious (because it is), but I firmly believe that sometimes in order to make progress you have to start with the absolute basics and then let those principles guide you.

Birdman or the Irony of Established Filmmakers Perfecting Movies About Failure

Birdman or (the Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance) almost made me want to give up trying to become a writer, artist, or creator. Not because of the story’s content, although it did give me a lot to chew on.

No, the reason it made me want to give up is because, like when I read Fitzgerald or Bradbury, I can’t imagine ever being able to create something so perfectly realized. It’s like Alejandro Inaritu, Nicolas Giacobone, Alexander Dinelaris, Jr., and Armando Bo (the four credited writers of Birdman) reached into my head, took all of the thoughts I’ve had about fame and artistic success, and told a better story with that inspiration than I ever could. It encapsulated a lot of my thoughts and feelings about one’s ambition to be an artist. Like Inside Llewyn Davis before it, established, successful filmmakers communicated the plight of the fledgling artist better than the fledging artist himself can.

In my estimation, the film picks apart art and artists through three separate characters. There is Riggan, the main character; Mike, Riggan’s foil for much of the film; and Sam, Riggan’s daughter. Let’s take a look at the ideas they embody one by one.

Riggan: Riggan represents the commercial, aging, soulless artist that may or may not have pursued acting for the right reasons but, as he’s gotten older, becomes obsessed with leaving a legacy behind. This resonates with me because part of the reason I want to be a writer is a vague attempt at leaving something behind that might allow me to be remembered.

Mike: Mike is pure artistry, only able to be his true self when he’s on stage. Renowned for his talent, he rejects all attempts at commercialism. I think the majority of those who are serious about writing feel this way. They look at what makes money in Hollywood, compare that with their idea of what makes a good movie, and notice a pretty huge discrepancy. Neither Riggan nor Mike understand the idea of a balance between art and accessibility.

Sam: The uncaring world. At one point, Sam has a great monologue about what motivates Riggan to put on the play at the center of the story. She explains that the only person whom the play’s success or failure matters for is him. No one else cares about his art. It’s a great point: How self-involved do we have to believe that the things we create matters to anyone but us? I tell myself I write stories and screenplays because I want to make people feel joy/inspiration/terror/thoughtfulness/whatever else I tell myself matters at any particular moment, but why should I assume they care?

Those three characters represent the extremes of every debate about art and its place in the world that I can think of. I’ve struggled with all three of those thoughts more than once while writing and thinking about why I want to write.

I think that Mike is what artists, whether writers, musicians, or painters, prefer to see themselves as. It’s what Riggan strives to be. But it’s not necessarily what any of us are, especially if we’re successful (not that I’d know what that’s like). There is a certain loftiness we all ascribe to our arts, but that loftiness also makes us inaccessible and pretentious. Riggan, on the other hand, is affable. He’s spent a career giving people what they want and being rewarded for it. This, I think, is ultimately the path we’re all on. Does something exist if no one acknowledges it? Popularity is the only sign of success that means anything.

That’s where Sam comes in. She is indifferent to everything and everyone for the most part, only coming to life when there is something more substantial beyond the “art” everyone is peddling. Her character, and what her character represents, is something I think about constantly. Why should anyone care what I think? Why should anyone care that I’m trying to do this thing over here when they can see that thing over there? The other characters need to justify their existence to her, just as any artist needs to justify their existence to the world at large.

There were some lofty ideas in Birdman that were wrapped up in a beautiful technical package and delivered by excellent performances. I just hate that the ideas that I spend my time obsessing over have already been stated in such an elegant way.

Damn you, Inaritu.

© 2024 Craig Gusmann

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