Our Past, Their Beginning
- 3 days ago
- 9 min read
When humanity's culture becomes a memory stored in machines, the concepts of art, knowledge and originality are called into question once again.
When we speak of the future, we often describe visions formed in the past rather than the future itself. This is because, when trying to describe a time that has not yet been experienced, we can only draw on our existing knowledge: the worlds we have seen and the stories that have been passed down to us. As we construct the future by piecing together fragments from novels, films, paintings, scientific predictions, and the images that have taken root in our minds since childhood, it is never completely unknown. Perhaps this is why artificial intelligence does not feel like an entirely new technology today. In a sense, we are entering a world that we imagined years ago and beginning to explore it for the first time.
In each section of this piece, I will transition by focusing on interconnected topics. For this reason, I have chosen to present each topic as a separate paragraph.
Yes, as far as I’m concerned, science fiction has taught us not so much what the future will be like, but rather how we can imagine it. Through books and films, we first encountered robots that resembled humans, thinking machines and people who could travel to other worlds, as well as computer-constructed realities. Works such as 1984, Neuromancer, The Matrix, Her and Ex Machina are remembered not because some of their predictions have come true, but because they have provided us with a means of imagining the future. They have provided a way of thinking about things that do not yet exist. However, this has a curious consequence: even when imagining the future, we are not entirely free. We describe the new using the words of old stories. The reason we think of artificial intelligence as a machine, an assistant, a threat or a rival to humanity (for better or worse) has more to do with how it has been portrayed to us for years than with what it actually is. Now that we are beginning to step out of these narratives and into the real world, we are facing the consequences of our imagination for the first time.
One of the most intriguing questions raised by artificial intelligence concerns what it has learnt in the past to produce the texts and images it generates today. The books, pictures, music and other cultural artefacts produced by humanity over the centuries have been transformed into material that machines can learn from. While we accumulated culture, machines extracted patterns from it. Now, these same machines are presenting us with “new” texts, images and ideas. It's a strange cycle: humans teach machines the culture they have produced, and the machines then use these cultural fragments to create new cultural works. We have reached a point where books are not only literary texts, but also data and educational material. Surprisingly, books have now become the “past” of artificial intelligence. For us, the past consists of memories, lived experiences, and life events; for machines, however, it consists of our creations, fragments of conversation, and various digital records. However, when machines begin to interpret our past and use it to produce “new” (I emphasise this because they are not actually new) things, we must ask ourselves how much these works truly belong to us. This is perhaps akin to a digital version of Theseus' ship: are the reproduced parts still part of the original, or does a new originality emerge?
The focus is gradually shifting from creativity and knowledge to trust. When artificial intelligence provides us with information, we no longer question its accuracy, but instead consider how convincing it seems. Let's go back in time a little. Huge encyclopaedias found in homes were regarded as the primary source of knowledge. They had their shortcomings, however: the information provided on the same topics might not have been exactly the same as in other encyclopaedias. Depending on the subject, we could also consult other sources, such as an elder in the family, a professional in the field, or some sort of expert. Then, as the internet took centre stage in our lives, Wikipedia emerged and monopolised the concept of the digital encyclopaedia. As with traditional encyclopaedias, articles on the site are written by people, but this time there is the possibility of editing them. This leaves scope for alteration and manipulation for political gain or rewriting in a biased manner. One significant advantage is the ability to access information quickly. Consequently, we now turn to artificial intelligence engines without consulting Wikipedia at all. This adds another layer to the process of acquiring information. However, questioning the accuracy of a Wikipedia article is becoming less important. What is becoming more important is accessing any piece of information as quickly as possible and automatically accepting it as true. In other words, we are becoming accustomed not to the information itself, but to the speed at which we access it. Instead of researching things we don’t know, we can simply find the answers; instead of reading books, we can find summaries; instead of trying to understand topics, we can simply ask for explanations. Admittedly, as with most technological developments, this convenience is not necessarily a bad thing in itself. The problem arises when we confuse the existence of an answer with knowledge itself. Knowing something is not the same as a machine being able to provide a convincing answer on that subject. Moreover, the more a machine's text resembles human text, the harder it becomes to discern the difference (consider the language used in encyclopaedias). Thus, whereas we used to question only what we knew, we now face another question: how can we be sure that what we know is actually knowledge? What a dreadful cycle! There’s no need to emphasise just how susceptible this technology is to manipulation, or how those who produce it might influence its users. However, the question we’re asking is no longer confined to knowledge because the same doubt soon arises in the realm of art as well.
Consider this: why is it important to know whether a painting was created by a human being when you look at it? Does knowing that a poem originated in a poet's mind alter its meaning? Technically, no. The words, colours and melody would remain the same. However, knowing the person behind the work changes the way we view it. We read the book and derive our own meaning from it. We listen to others' interpretations, which causes the meaning to change and evolve. When we read about the author's life, other thoughts take root in our minds. The work is inseparable from its creator. It bears traces of how a person sees the world, makes choices and mistakes, and expresses themselves. Art is human: it is sometimes flawed and sometimes incomplete. It's like a guitarist playing the wrong note during a concert. It's like a poet forgetting a rhyme. Such things are natural. It is precisely these small mistakes in paintings, oddities in sentences and flaws in recordings that remind us of their existence. In an era where artificial intelligence can produce increasingly flawless works, this distinction is becoming ever more apparent. It may no longer be enough for a work of art to simply be beautiful, moving, or “high-quality”. We may want to know that a human being is behind it. However, this raises a troubling question: can we view a work of art in the same way if we don't know it was created by a human?
What I mean is that, in the near future, artists may need to prove not only that they created their works, but also that they are their original creators. Photographers' outtakes, recordings of the moment the shot was taken and writers' drafts, notes and notebooks accumulated over the years will need to be considered as forms of evidence, rather than mere by-products of the creative process. In the past, simply saying “This is my work” was enough, as the alternative was obvious. Now, however, it is becoming increasingly difficult to tell whether an image is a genuine photograph or has been digitally generated, or whether a text was written by a human or an AI model. We are aware that we can add a disclaimer when sharing posts on social media. However, the platforms themselves cannot always distinguish between the two, which is strange and frightening. Whether or not to add the disclaimer is a personal choice. If it is not included, those seeking engagement may exploit this, resulting in comments that often consist of arguments about the authenticity of the post's content. The problem at the heart of this is that we focus on whether the creation is original rather than on its content, such as literary merit, camera angles or the thoughts it provokes in art lovers. Ironically, while technology gives us the ability to produce more than ever before, it reduces our ability to be certain of the authenticity of what is produced. Artists can no longer simply present their work — they may also be forced to reveal the person behind it. I recently came across a concrete example of this on social media: in response to potential accusations in the comments section, an artist recorded her painting process and shared the footage. In such a world, it seems inevitable that we will have to reconsider what determines the value of art.
This is probably why, at the heart of the debate on artificial intelligence, we are asking the wrong question. Regardless of whether AI can be creative, the real issue is why we regard its outputs as creative works, and whether these are genuinely new creations. After all, people did not write, draw or compose music just to produce something. Sometimes they did so to express something they could not put into words, to empathise with the pain of others, or to give form to feelings they could not even explain to themselves. The same sentence can convey different emotions at different stages of a person's life. Even if the sentence remains the same, the experience that gave rise to it will have changed. While this is not a new creation, its emotional impact will be different. Such sentences are distinctive in that they spring from a specific life experience. A machine does not need to feel sorrow in order to produce text conveying it. This is where artificial intelligence comes into its own. The distinction must lie precisely here. Being human does not mean producing everything in a higher-quality or more artistic manner. Rather, it means experiencing something, being transformed by it, misinterpreting it, remembering it differently years later and ultimately imbuing one’s work with traces of these experiences. As we have touched upon, the key factor here is the value of the past. If creativity contains an element of lived experience, the real question for the future will not be whether machines can create art, but whether we will continue to seek a human element in art. If machines eventually possess a past and experiences similar to our own (which seems highly likely), the distinctions we make today may become blurred. Until we reach that point — and perhaps even beyond it — our focus must remain on human beings.
It seems we need to reimagine the future. For years, we have largely envisaged technological progress as existing on a spectrum between two extremes: machines that would either save or destroy us. We were either creating a perfect world or bringing about the end of humanity. However, the future does not have to be so simplistic. Perhaps artificial intelligence will not replace humans, but will instead prompt us to question more deeply what it means to be human. Art will not disappear, but the role of the artist will become more important. Books may be produced more quickly, but it will become harder to distinguish the truly worthwhile ones. Machines will learn from what we write, and as we learn from them, we will realise what we have lost. Is the reason we see the future as nothing but disaster because we lack the courage to imagine it as sufficiently different? Science fiction has provided us with a vocabulary with which to think about the future. I believe the time has come to alter that language slightly. Incidentally, that is the hardest part. Yet you know there is something precious that makes us human, something machines do not possess. It is hope.
In this context, I would like to draw the following conclusion. The most important question for the future may not be what machines will become. Barring a major catastrophe, technological progress is unstoppable. Whether we like it or not, whether we can use them or not, and whether we approve of them or not, they will continue to exist in one form or another. The most important point is what we ourselves will become in their presence. One day, artificial intelligence may be capable of writing good novels, producing aesthetically pleasing images, and telling compelling stories. In my view, this is just as inevitable as technological development itself. In such a situation, the question “Did a human make this?” will no longer arise. Instead, we will return to a much older question: is it perfection that makes a work of art valuable, or the presence of a fallible, living creator with a history? Furthermore, we should not forget that every creation is only as valuable as the time we devote to it. The lifespans of works of art are determined by our own.
We do not yet know what the future holds. Over time, we may choose to use more concrete methods to predict it. For now, however, we must rely on our imagination and assumptions. However, to properly imagine the future, we must take a step back from the ones that have been mapped out for us and consider what we do not want to lose.
So, as a species, what do we not want to lose?
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