As someone who spends much of her time building technology, grappling with strategy at the cusp of the known and unknown, and how it all comes together in messy organizations, this—what I’m about to share… felt almost too personal.
But the truth is, like many artists, I’ve been quietly grappling with the rise of generative AI. Not from the outside looking in, but from the inside of my studio. The space where I paint, draw, sculpt, and try to understand myself through form and shadow and texture. A space where I’ve begun to ask: What does it mean to create in a time when machines can mimic imagination, but not meaning?
At first, I didn’t want to share that I was struggling. I wasn’t sure who I was as an artist anymore. It had destabilized me. My sense of authorship, and my view of my value as an artist. Was I still one, if a machine could generate something that looked “finished” in seconds? Was my process… slow, chaotic, physical… still relevant?
But something shifted after a long, rich conversation with a group of fellow artists. It was quiet, and deep screaming at the same time. Shared. Messy. Uncertain. And that was the point.
It made me realize that the reason I needed to write this wasn’t because I had answers. It was because I had questions. And because the creative community, in all its forms, is being asked to rethink what authorship, process, and self-expression really mean.
When the Machine Walks Into the Studio
Over the last few months, I’ve been working on a body of art that explores identity and self through drawing, sculpture, painting, and what I can only describe as early-stage myth-making with my hands. These pieces were not just images… they were iterative, psychological, and deeply personal. Vessels I poured questions into.
But as I worked, generative AI found its way in. At first, it was conversations about my ideas, a creative brainstorming partner. I would share my concepts, my sketches, and it would give me new ideas or aspects of what I created that I had not considered. For one particular piece, after sharing my meaning and graphite sketches, I asked it to render what a painting of everything we had discussed would look like.
The results blew me away. I was shocked. From one aspect, as a technologist I was excited, impressed with the advances in imaging models. On the other, as an artist, I grappled with a mix of loss of motivation to create—because why do this if machines can do it so effortlessly? It produced something beautiful. Not mine. And made me doubt whether I could do better. What value did I add? Would I just be relegated to the lost practices I had seen as a child touring the way life used to be in a pioneer village?
I was in free fall. And it was in that moment, this kind, thoughtful group of artists gathered around me as I shyly shared what AI had produced and shared this mixed feeling. And in the midst of this struggle, I was in awe of how they defended who I was as an artist—fervently telling me these are still my ideas that I shared, my concepts and life.
In that conversation, where I felt I was laying on an emergency table as an artist, I started to ask the questions.
What I Started to Understand
That conversation stayed with me. Not because it gave me clarity, but because it gave me grounding. I didn’t walk away with a framework, but looking back, I realize I began to understand a few things more clearly.
First, I saw the importance of confronting AI; not avoiding it, not pretending it doesn’t impact us. Thinking about it, wrestling with it, sitting with its implications—that’s part of being an artist right now. We don’t have to all love it. But we do have to look at it.
Second, I started to shift how I saw AI in the process. Rather than letting it steer or suggest a direction, I began to treat it like any other input, like a conversation, or a fragment from a dream, or a passing image. Something to respond to, not obey. Integration with intention. That felt like the difference.
And finally, something deeper clicked. If AI is going to keep evolving—and it will—then what matters most is how we stay centered in our own voice. The work is still ours to make. Our stories, our obsessions, our limitations, our hands. That’s what gives the work meaning. Preserving that creative selfhood isn’t just possible, it’s necessary.
This wasn’t about arriving at an answer. It was about realizing that the way we engage with AI is as much part of the art as the outcome.
Authorship Isn’t in the Output. It’s in the Filtering.
So I started to play with it more. After feeding the model a set of prompts based on my personal symbolism… whales, scissors, jars, storms. It returned a cascade of uncanny, often eerie compositions. Some felt oddly familiar. Others, totally alien. None of them felt complete.
That’s when I realized: the AI wasn’t offering answers. It was reflecting back possibilities. And I was the one deciding what stayed, what evolved, and what got discarded.
In a conversation that’s stayed with me, someone said: “You are the filter. It doesn’t matter what the machine gives you. The act of choosing. That’s your authorship.”
That landed hard. It reminded me of Renaissance studios, where assistants might underpaint skies or prepare canvases, but the vision remained the master’s. AI might suggest, iterate, provoke, but it doesn’t mean. Only I can do that.
This Isn’t Just About Art. It’s About Creativity Everywhere.
The pieces I’ve been working on live in the fine art realm. Clay sculptures, hand-drawn fragments, mythological composites. But what I’ve learned applies far beyond the studio. This grounding in artistic intent and meaning, is at the core of any creative pursuit—even ones that lead to mass generation of alterations. It is like the mother of sourdough, which is why I think it is a critical issue for all creators to grapple with personally.
Whether we’re building a brand, designing a product, writing a campaign, or sketching on a napkin, there’s a universal question we’re all facing: In a world where machines can generate, what does it mean to originate?
I don’t have a perfect answer. But here’s what I’ve come to believe: AI can mimic beauty. But it can’t create meaning. AI can scale ideas. But it can’t decide what matters. AI can offer possibilities. But it can’t choose your path.
That’s still up to us. And that choice—the act of filtering, feeling, refusing, returning—is where creativity lives.
For Creatives Still Figuring It Out
If you’re someone who makes things and you’ve found yourself wondering where you belong in this new landscape… you’re not alone.
You don’t need to have a perfectly articulated AI policy. You don’t need to explain why it unsettles you, or excites you, or both. You just need to stay in dialogue—with yourself, with your tools, with the work.
I’m still exploring. Still getting lost. Still making things I hate and then making things that surprise me.
But I’ve come to trust that my voice however strange, however slow, still matters. So does yours.
