Everybody does have a book in them, but in most cases that's where it should stay.
-Christopher Hitchens
Imagine finding yourself in a situation where, within just a few years, a sudden technological advancement renders large parts of your productivity unnecessary. Tasks people once paid you for—where you held special expertise—are now somehow accessible to everyone, especially your employer. What would you do next? Would you switch professions? Would you try to convince your employer to set aside the advantages of these new technologies out of loyalty? Or would you attempt to leverage your skills and knowledge to harness the new technology in your favor?
These are just a few of the questions now haunting many in the creative industries due to the rise of Artificial Intelligence, especially with the viability of programs using Large Language Models. Only a few years ago, artists and administrators watched discussions about the looming automation of the trucking industry and felt secure, believing their white-collar fields were safe from major disruptions. Now, however, we see that white-collar jobs are more vulnerable to change within the coming decade.
In the past, I’ve discussed how these technologies are already impacting Hollywood, affecting everyone from writers and editors to musicians and producers. To avoid rehashing previous points, this time, we will focus on what I consider some of the most misguided arguments and solutions my peers are suggesting for this looming crisis. Most arguments I’ve heard on this subject fall into two main categories. The first is a defense of the industry from a humanistic perspective: “Machines cannot replace humans in the creative industry because they lack the fundamental humanity that makes creative work worth doing and admiring.” I find this line of argumentation worth exploring despite its many pitfalls. The second defense, which I find entirely unpersuasive, is rooted in labor-union protections: "Through unions, we will safeguard how this work is done and keep technological advancements out of the creative industries altogether." Let us address these in reverse order.
The economic principle of Creative Destruction is central to my view on the futility of labor organizations as a defense against new technologies. Austrian economist Joseph Schumpeter introduced this economic concept, describing how innovation and technological progress drive economic growth by replacing outdated industries, products, or methods with newer, more efficient ones. This process often fuels significant economic development, but it also involves the decline or displacement of existing businesses, jobs, and technologies as new ones emerge.
Typically, creative destruction begins when new technologies, products, or business models arise, often driven by entrepreneurs or technological breakthroughs. These innovations disrupt established markets, making older methods less profitable or obsolete. While some industries and jobs may be lost in this process, new ones often emerge, spurring overall economic growth. Displaced workers find roles in these new industries or in unrelated sectors that benefit from increased productivity.
Through the processes of Creative Destruction, every industry remains in a constant state of flux, echoing the Greek philosopher Heraclitus’s assertion, Panta Rhei (“Everything flows”). The process is unimaginably painful to the many individuals who face these cycles of innovation and obsolescence. But it is worth re-iterating that in the long run, creative destruction leads to higher productivity and economic growth, which can improve the standard of living.
AI technologies have triggered a sharp moment of creative destruction within creative industries, one that will likely reshape the landscape of creative work sooner than we anticipate. It’s only natural that workers caught in such a whirlwind would seek to stop the storm in hopes of preventing the process altogether. Many in the creative economy with union-oriented views seem convinced that regulating labor will compel employers to overlook the productivity benefits that new technologies bring. However, exploring the history of industries that have fallen prey to similar cycles has convinced me that the notion of shielding jobs in creative industries from AI replacement through labor solidarity, union rules, or legal measures is a fantasy. At best, these efforts typically delay the impact of new technologies for a few decades; at worst, they dull survival instincts, allowing work to gradually decline and eventually be lost entirely to more competitive cities or markets.
Many of us struggle to accept painful market realities when they impact things we love. This discomfort often makes us susceptible to denialism. In such cases, I find it extremely helpful to examine industries outside our own, where a detached analysis feels less like a betrayal and more like an academic exercise. With that in mind, let’s talk about elevators.
Elevators are a technical innovation that many rarely think about, yet the development of modern metropolises would be unimaginable without them. The early growth of New York City, in particular, is closely tied to the creation of viable elevators. Early elevators, however, were not known for their safety and required trained engineers to operate. Due to the dangers inherent in operating elevators, workers in the 1920s organized labor unions to strike and demand higher wages and protections from building owners who allowed tenants to operate this machinery. Since elevator operators could shut down New York during a strike, Local 32B soon became one of the most powerful labor unions in the city. They enjoyed this power until the 1950s. Thanks to the increased safety features that elevator companies developed over decades to protect elevator operators, they eventually found a way to automate elevators altogether. From the 1950’s onward, through a process of Creative Destruction, the Otis elevator company made elevator operators obsolete.
As this process unfolded, Local 32B continued to strike in an effort to halt the spread of this new technology. The success of these strikes, which once struck fear into the hearts of New York building owners, began to wane. Initially, the union was able to prevent buildings from adopting automated elevators, as employing an elevator technician remained cheaper than investing in automation. However, as the union pushed for increasingly larger financial benefits from employers, they eventually priced themselves out of the fight against automation. Throughout this gradual decline, organized labor assured its dwindling beneficiaries that they had achieved significant victories for their movement. Yet, ultimately, they succumbed to a technology that proved not only more cost-effective but also safer and more reliable.
This case is not unique; we can all think of labor roles that once seemed essential to the functioning of society, now relegated to history or preserved only as novelties. Off the top of my head, I can think of carriage drivers, horseshoe makers, horse shit shovelers, stiff shirt collar launderers, chimney sweeps, music copyists, music tape cutters, photo film producers like the once titanic Eastman Kodak, top hat manufacturers, trained typists…I’m out of breath.
Union-led efforts to curb competition are constrained by the realities of competitive markets. In truth, union contract negotiations are only indefinitely effective in uncontested markets. When technological advancements or alternative markets arise for a good or service, the provider with the least efficient and most costly offer will inevitably fail. Despite the initial surge of adrenaline union members feel each time they secure larger contracts in shrinking industries, they often fail to recognize that these improved contracts typically accelerate the contraction already underway.
I trust that this exploration of another industry has amply explained why I remain unconvinced by arguments suggesting that, through unions and protections, workers in the creative economy can safeguard their methods and keep technological advancements entirely out of the creative industries.
However, despite its many pitfalls, another argument holds more weight when discussing the survival of work in the creative economy: machines cannot replace humans in the creative industry because they lack the fundamental humanity that makes creative work worth doing and admiring. I’m generally sympathetic to this view, with some not-insignificant caveats.
My views on machine-generated art generally align with those of music historian Jan Swafford. In an article for Van Magazine, Swafford reviewed a Beethoven symphony generated by a large language model program. He considered the entire endeavor little more than a charming party trick—interesting on its own terms but lacking the enduring quality typically found in Beethoven’s work. He noted that "Artificial intelligence can mimic art, but it can't be expressive at it because, other than the definition of the word, it doesn't know what expressive is.” Like Swafford, I question the interest society will find in art that lacks humanity, as its main objective is to connect us to our innermost psyche.
My conviction in this viewpoint is deeply rooted, strengthened by the fact that artistic and cultural endeavors seem most vital during humanity’s darkest moments. Musicians know, for instance, that Messiaen composed his Quatuor pour la fin du temps (Quartet for the End of Time) in 1941 while imprisoned in a Nazi concentration camp. Similarly, Alan Seeger wrote his seminal poem I Have a Rendezvous with Death the night before he lost his life during the deadly Somme Offensive in World War I. Oscar Wilde’s most profound analysis of mankind is found in De Profundis, written during his imprisonment and after his ostracism. These feats of introspection emerged in times when art might seem an absurd luxury or distraction. Yet, the more one reads about history’s depravities, the more one realizes that such examples are not anomalies: creators and audience members alike turn to art to connect with their humanity.
Holocaust historian Saul Friedländer profoundly illustrates the importance of cultural expression amid extermination in his two-part work Nazi Germany and the Jews. I’d like to highlight the following passages from the second volume, The Years of Extermination:
“…Reich-Ranicki, fluent in German, soon found a position as chief of the ‘Translation and Correspondence Bureau.’
His comments regarding the avid attendance at the symphony concerts shed further light on what could be surmised about cultural life in the ghetto in general. ‘It was not defiance that brought the hungry and the retched into the concert halls, but a longing for solace and elevation—however hackneyed these words, they are appropriate. Those who were ceaselessly fearing for their lives, those who were vegetating in the ghetto, were seeking shelter and refuge for an hour or two, searching for some form of security and perhaps even happiness. They needed a counter-world.” (pg. 117)
And this one from the chroniclers at the ghetto in Litzmannstadt:
“Though life weighs heavily upon the people in the ghetto, they refuse to do without cultural life altogether. The closing of the House of Culture has deprived the ghetto of the last vestiges of public cultural life. But with his tenacity and vitality, the ghetto dwellers, hardened by countless misfortunes, always seeks new ways to sate his hunger for something of cultural value. The need for music is especially intense, and small centers for the cultivation of music have sprung up over time; to be sure, only for a certain upper stratum. Sometimes it is professional musicians, sometimes amateurs who perform for an intimate group of invited guests. Chamber music is played, and there is singing. Likewise, small, family-like circles form in order to provide spiritual nourishment on a modest level. Poets and prose writers read from their own works. The classics and more recent works of world literature are recited. Thus does the ghetto salvage something of its former spiritual life.” (Pg. 601)
The fact that art appears in the darkest hours convinces me that humanity’s unique need for art stems from the need to connect us to the spirituality we often require. As the aforementioned victim of the Holocaust put it, we often need a counterworld. I question whether we would be interested in exploring worlds created by language models that cannot possibly understand the human condition beyond linguistics.
I wish we could leave it here and say, “case closed:” creative destruction cannot harm the creative economy because we are shielded by humanity’s need for art made by people, not machines, which cannot tap into the human psyche. But things are not that easy. Not all cultural products are equal in cultural value, and not every player in the creative economy is an artist providing spiritual or cultural nourishment.
Broadly speaking, the 21st century has been marked by the uncertainties unique to postmodern thinking. The relativization of language and an ethos of anti-elitism have their benefits, but they have rendered most discussions about the quality of art nearly impossible. Most people I speak with who work in the creative economy tend to shy away from distinguishing not only between what they might consider good or bad art but also between culture and entertainment. Naturally, if these subjects are taboo among those working in the arts, discussion about what is and isn’t art becomes verboten. It is a curious phenomenon that we no longer discuss these subjects openly and at length, considering that until the mid-20th century, they were the main preoccupation of most philosophical writing on aesthetics, from Plato to T.S. Eliot.
The American philosopher Allan Bloom lamented this trend in his book The Closing of the American Mind. His cultural pessimism led him to believe that the definition of creativity had been eroded to the point of cheapening its meaning. To him, there was a clear distinction between creativity and artistically-adjacent activities. This passage is of particular interest:
“Of course the use of words like ‘creativity’ and ‘personality’ does not mean that those who use them understand the thought that made their use necessary, let alone agree with it. The language has been trivialized. Words that were meant to describe and encourage Beethoven and Goethe are now applied to every schoolchild. It is in the nature of democracy to deny no one access to good things. If those things are really not accessible to all, then the tendency is to deny the fact—simply to proclaim, for example, that what is not art is art. There is in American society a mad rush to distinguish oneself, and, as soon as something has been accepted as distinguishing, to package it in such a way that everyone can feel included. Creativity and personality were intended to be terms of distinction. They were, as a matter of fact, intended to be the distinctions appropriate to egalitarian society, in which all distinction is threatened. The leveling of these distinctions through familiarity merely encourages self-satisfaction. Now that they belong to everyone, they can be said to mean nothing, both in common parlance and in the social science disciplines that use them as ‘concepts.’ They have no specific content, are a kind of opiate of the masses. They do, however, provide a focus for all the dissatisfactions that any life anywhere and at any time provides, particularly those fostered in a democratic society. Creativity and personality take the place of older words like virtue, industry, rationality and character, affect our judgments, provide us with educational goals. They are the bourgeois’ way of not being bourgeois. Hence they are sources of snobbishness and pretentiousness alien to our real virtues. We have a lot of good engineers but very few good artists. All the honor, however, goes to the latter, or rather, one should say, those who stand in for the latter in the eyes of the many. The real artists don’t need this kind of support and are instead weakened by it. The money-maker is not the most appetizing personality, but he is far preferable to the intellectual phony.” (Part 2, Creativity, pg. 183)
I bring up this line of thinking to define the limits of what kinds of art humanity will continue to find spiritually nurturing. As I’ve said, I truly believe that AI-generated creations lack the fundamental humanity that makes creative work worth doing and admiring. But not all creative work is art and not all jobs in the creative economy are focused on producing the kind of artistic products that nurture the soul and serve the purpose of emotional introspection.
Coca-Cola ads, incidental music for television, or jingles can indeed be beautiful, but they serve as conduits for other media. Their purpose is fundamentally different from works intended to satisfy humanity’s need for beauty and introspection. To pretend these creations are categorically identical is not only absurd but also indicative of an erosion of distinction often led by craftsmen in denial of their irrelevance in the artistic arena.
Setting aside the complicated distinction between art and entertainment, I want to focus solely on the difference between craftsmanship and artistry. The characteristics that separate a good craftsman from an artist are difficult to define, but to borrow from Justice Stewart, who famously said about pornography, "I shall not today attempt further to define the kinds of material I understand to be embraced within that shorthand description, but I know it when I see it," I find that the difference is something you recognize instinctively when it presents itself. Every great artist is a good craftsman, but not every craftsman is an artist. Likewise, not every creative expression holds the same weight as another.
During a conversation about the importance of keeping our self-importance as freelancers in check, Thomas Stevens shared a story that highlights what we’ve been discussing. He and Malcolm McNab were once called to an LA studio to record Vivaldi’s famous double trumpet concerto. Constrained by a busy schedule balancing studio work and his role as principal trumpet of the Los Angeles Philharmonic, Stevens agreed to the session on the condition that he would be allowed to park outside the soundstage.
As I recall, Stevens and McNab made tremendous efforts to deliver a remarkable rendition of the concerto, drawing on their expertise and deep knowledge of Baroque music. When the session concluded, Stevens packed up, only to discover—much to his dismay—that his car had been towed, while McNab’s remained untouched. I wonder if Scorsese ever faced such indignities.
The real revelation, however, came when the movie All the President’s Men, starring Dustin Hoffman, premiered. Despite their great artistry and care, the music they had so painstakingly rendered was used merely as background for a typewriter scene. Perhaps the gig was worth the paycheck, but the artistic investment was hardly worth the hassle of having his car towed. This story always reminds me of the importance of recognizing one’s relevance as a creative agent within the broader context of the economy in which one operates.
Beethoven’s copyists, Shakespeare’s editors, Bernini’s engineers, and Da Vinci’s assistants were talented and skilled craftsmen, but they did not hold the same weight in the creative process as their employers. Similarly, Hans Zimmer’s army of orchestrators, Spielberg’s film developers and special effects specialists, and the animators at Pixar were all essential players in their employer’s creative vision. One could argue that great works of art would never have been possible without these craftsmen, but only insofar as they participated in the economics of their era rather than in the creative process itself.
Part of the challenge in distinguishing between craftsmen and artists lies in how this distinction touches the heart of deeply personal journeys. No one enters the creative economy and spends years nurturing a passion without ambition and a conviction that they have something unique to express. Yet this tenacity does not mean that everyone in the creative economy has something compelling enough to convey—lacking inventiveness; nor is everyone able to skillfully realize their vision through their chosen medium—lacking craftsmanship. Transcendent artists throughout history are the product of a rare marriage of inventiveness and craftsmanship—a combination more uncommon than we often realize.
People lacking inventiveness can still find work in the creative economy, while those lacking skill are generally bound to fail. If you're part of the creative economy, chances are you're not an artist but a craftsman. Lest I be accused of self-aggrandizing, I count myself among the craftsmen in the industry. Having met my share of true artists and had the great privilege of exploring the works of the masters, I can, without any self-pity, acknowledge that there is little in common between the muses who visited Picasso, Mahler, Bach, or Milton and those available to me. As Bloom pointed out, despite our tendency to label every kindergartener a creative genius, the reality is that true artistic genius is rare, and the majority of those in the creative economy are craftsmen of some sort.
The rarity of truly worthwhile artistic expression is so overwhelming that it often fails to meet the demands of global cultural markets. This disparity has, at times, led to the glorification of lesser talents to satisfy a hungry market. But despite the halo effect that credentialism and accolades can bestow on lesser artists, to paraphrase Justice Stewart once more, audiences of posterity typically recognize the difference between genius and the mundane when they encounter it.
The division between meaningful and ephemeral art becomes palpable when we truly need an outlet for our internal struggles. It has become a typical question to ask: “What book/movie/album/etc. would you bring to a deserted island?” I find that this question lacks sufficient urgency and gravity to make us realize what we truly can't live without. After all, time on an island with a good book or album seems rather leisurely. I would rather ask: what works of art would you wish to accompany you into the abyss? Had you been interned in the Nazi concentration camps and ghettos or the Soviet gulags, what artistic expressions would have fulfilled your need for a counter-world?
And there lies the weakness of the arguments which posit that machines cannot replace humans in the creative industry because they lack the fundamental humanity that makes creative work worth doing and admiring. While this argument holds strong when discussing true artists, it does not account for the craftsmen who lack a strong creative impulse. Can I imagine a world where a machine replaces Bach, Keats, Velázquez, or Kate Soper? No. But can I imagine these creatives using AI tools instead of relying on humans for tasks like copying their manuscripts, editing their writings, and other such things? Yes. Can I imagine a world where commercial jingle writers, movie composer orchestrators, color correctors, recording mastering engineers, sound artists, and TV composers are replaced by AI tools? Yes.
The inclusion of large language model technologies in the creative economy, coupled with the ongoing process of creative destruction, should raise concerns for many craftsmen while igniting excitement among creative artists. I am reminded of the crisis that swept through the chess world—and intellectual circles more broadly—when the Deep Blue computer defeated chess grandmaster Garry Kasparov in the late nineties. What followed mirrored Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s five stages of grief: first, denial that computers could ever surpass humans in chess, a game celebrated as the pinnacle of human intellectual achievement. Then came anger, as Kasparov accused Deep Blue of being manipulated and prompted by human interference. Bargaining followed—perhaps computers could merely enhance human players rather than replace them. This was soon overshadowed by depression, as grandmasters mourned a bygone era before Pandora’s box had been opened. Finally, there was acceptance: the realization that computers had irrevocably transformed chess, revealing new possibilities for the sport even as they upended its traditional paradigms.
Creative artists, grappling with the inexorable march of creative destruction and the rise of machine-driven tools, unconsciously traverse the stages of grief that once afflicted the chess world. Denial comes first—a steadfast belief that the deeply human essence of art is beyond the reach of algorithms and models, bolstered by a hope that labor unions or ethical resistance will halt the emergence of these technologies. This denial often gives way to anger aimed at what feels like a desecration of their craft and at industries that prioritize efficiency and convenience over human endeavor. Bargaining follows: a cautious hope that these tools might act as collaborators rather than replacements, a way to retain agency over their work. But depression creeps in as they confront the reality that many roles within the broader creative economy—especially those reliant on repetitive craftsmanship—are indeed vulnerable to replacement. For those who persist, however, there is acceptance—not as a concession to obsolescence, but as a recognition that these disruptive tools might also catalyze creation, opening unforeseen pathways for innovation and growth to those bold enough to embrace them.
I take solace in the fact that the chess world not only survived the challenge posed by Deep Blue but adapted and ultimately thrived. Over time, chess computers became the norm, reshaping the game’s landscape. While this technological shift dismantled parts of the chess industry—rendering obsolete the roles of strategy book authors, coaches, and certain tutors—platforms like Chess.com have emerged, democratizing access to learning tools and broadening the game’s global reach. Chess has experienced a surge in popularity that would have been unimaginable in the late 1990s. As for the grandmasters, they were not replaced by computers. After all, nobody tunes in to watch two machines face off. The intrinsic allure of chess players lies in their humanity. It doesn’t matter that computers can play the game more perfectly; the real appeal is witnessing a human’s capacity for calculation, resilience, and mental strength under pressure and stress.
As in chess, machines will render large swaths of the creative economy obsolete, but they will also amplify interest in creative fields and inspire new engagement from amateurs and enthusiasts alike. I believe Jan Swafford was correct when he argued that a Beethoven-like symphony produced by AI is, at best, a curiosity. The more compelling question is: what Beethoven would have created if he had access to a large language model? It certainly wouldn’t be a mere replication of his past work—it would be something transcendent, shaped by the possibilities of this new landscape.
Beethoven would have been an adopter of this technology, as he was always aware of the advancements in his time and embraced innovations that profoundly influenced his music. One of the most notable was the piano, which had evolved with stronger and more dynamic capabilities due to the introduction of iron frames and improved action, allowing Beethoven to explore a wider range of expression in his later piano works. He also adopted the metronome, incorporating precise tempo markings into many of his compositions, such as the Ninth Symphony and his late piano sonatas. Additionally, the tuning fork, invented in 1711, became an essential tool for ensuring accurate pitch, particularly as Beethoven's hearing deteriorated. These technological advancements allowed Beethoven to push the boundaries of musical expression, creating works that were revolutionary for their time and continue to resonate today.
Those who fear this technology often project its effects onto our current world rather than imagining the world that will evolve to incorporate it. When even the most average of creators can produce anything with a simple prompt and a button click, the average consumer will demand creations that transcend such ease. The real challenge ahead is not between creative artists and emerging technologies, but rather between craftsmen and productivity tools. The pain and fear many in the creative sector are experiencing stem not from the destruction of their artistic fields, but from the personal realization that they are not the creative agents they once hoped to be.
I can't remember where I first heard the adage “not everyone can become a ballerina,” but the truth it conveys is most painful to those who, despite their skill, realize they cannot cross the thin line that separates them from genius. Though this may sound depressing to some, I believe this preoccupation is essential for those striving for transcendental achievement. We know that Picasso and Dalí were constantly preoccupied with matching the achievements of Velázquez and Goya. Similarly, Beethoven was haunted by Bach, Mary Shelley by Milton, Milton by Shakespeare, Da Vinci and Michelangelo by the Greeks, and Churchill by Lord Marlborough and Napoleon (and Napoleon by Alexander and Caesar).
Explosive moments of creativity are more often than not the result of overcoming the challenges posed by great minds from humanity’s past. As Newton wrote to Robert Hooke in 1675, “If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of Giants.” Facing a challenge is creativity’s natural fertilizer, and machines capable of producing viable mediocrity at the touch of a button are the greatest antidote to complacency.
The debate surrounding the role of AI in the creative industries exposes deeper tensions within society regarding labor, creativity, and human value. While the allure of union protections and humanistic defenses may offer temporary comfort, history shows that technological advances inevitably drive industry shifts that cannot be halted through regulation alone. As the elevator example vividly demonstrates, labor movements, despite their initial successes, ultimately cannot prevent the inevitable march of progress. However, the unique human connection found in true art remains resistant to mechanization. Despite the challenges we face, the need for art that speaks to our shared human experience cannot be replaced by machines. Yet, the boundary between art, craftsmanship, and entertainment is becoming increasingly blurred, raising questions about what truly constitutes meaningful cultural expression. In navigating this uncertainty, it is essential to reclaim the distinction between creative artistry and mere production, ensuring that the value of human ingenuity is not lost amid the noise of technological advancement.
I often find that these analyses can seem pessimistic, but I do not view them that way. Periods of creative destruction are undeniably frightening and can lead many to despair. My suggestion to those in the creative economy as our industries evolve is to double down on the motivation that drives your involvement in the generation of culture. We all do what we must to make ends meet, and in that journey, we often find ourselves putting off writing that novel, composing great songs, operas, or symphonies, or avoiding the coldness of the empty canvas. Yet, thanks to emerging technologies, most people with a creative inclination now have access to tools that were once available only to a select few successful artists: editing software, color correction tools, orchestration programs, and more. What will you create with such power at your disposal?