Messy, divinely intelligent humanity is under fire by...
…automated perfection — that greasy salad of aluminum, silicon and copper, gallium, palladium and computational power designed to fulfill our need for speed.
My artist’s heart quakes and I wanna shake (an impotent) fist at CGI skies, shrieking profanities at a pixel-stuffed entity, but I’m delighted.
Even though a world is coming where 10 people will soon be doing what 500 once did… even though ‘white collar knowledge workers’ — copywriters, designers, accountants and more — are destined for the scrap heap thanks to the busy bots so well briefed they’re taking over the boffins who gave them life. (Mary Shelley called, she wants her IP back.)
Even though an existential crisis isn’t just looming, it’s set up a franchise in every city. I say…
Let’s dance, artificial intelligence. This is simply your honeymoon phase, darling. And as any lover of limerence will tell you, unlike the power of humanity to pivot, the first flush of romance was never built to last.
This is a reckoning.
In the words of my favourite Artist Whisperer, Amie McNee,
A.I. is going to make our human mess a precious commodity.
A yearning for deep soul over deep fakes won’t just be the idyll of dreamers anymore but a generator of wildly imperfect, soulful, heart-hewn art, services and careers.
The sky is not falling. The sky is the limit when you lean in to what your soul has been pestering you to do since you were in utero.
© Phyllis Foundis 2025