“We know what we are, but know not what we may be.” – Hamlet, William Shakespeare
We get the word “sabotage” from the 19th century French word “sabot” meaning “shoe” or “clog.” It is a reference to the French garment workers who threw their wooden shoes into the machinery that was creating fabric automatically, essentially replacing the garment workers on the production lines and incurring a labor dispute. Ada Lovelace, daughter of poet Byron, was one of the first people who understand that machines had the potential to be used to add together great sums. She also created the first computer program, but because the machine that would have totaled the sum only existed in theory she could not see the true fruits of her labor. Computers used to refer to people who could count or create sums themselves in their minds or on paper quickly. Think of the scene in Hidden Figures (2016) wherein the character of Katherine Johnson explains that she is a “computer for NASA.” While advancements in science within 20th century literature and media were sometimes optimistic (i.e., The Jetsons) and sometimes grim (i.e., The Twilight Zone, Harlan Ellison’s work), machinery itself would mostly be content to tackle the daily annoyances of life such as doing the dishes and laundry. What we have seen though is advances in technology that seem to endeavor to make people obsolete, ironically at a time when anti-intellectualism is at an all-time high. Ironic that the more we learned to depend on machines for our edification, it actually did not make us smarter.
Where did this begin?
I am not the first to argue that the rise of anti-intellectual sentiments started with TV shows, but it seems to have started with NBC’s Friends. This is not a radical observation and may even be its charm, but within the Friends “universe,” there is a general disdain for the intellectual. The character of Ross is often the butt of the joke whenever he tries to share any research or details about his job, a paleontologist. Chandler once says his favorite author is Ernest Hemmingway but cannot name a single one of his books. Rachel complains about watching the history channel with Ross instead of Nick at Night together. Regardless, the show averaged twenty-five million watchers per week from 1994 to 2004. Sex and the City, a show that boasts a writer as its main character, hardly ever shows the work of the writer. We never see the protagonist reading. We do see her at her laptop, sometimes, but we never see her engage in intellectual work. Why is this? To be fair, it’s hard to show thinking in an interesting way (unless you’re Stephen Sondheim), in a visual medium, and also the writers of the show probably thought that it would not be interesting to other people. We had to wait until the first Sex and the City movie (2008) to see Carrie actually go to a library, in a city like New York, which boasts some of the most beautiful and vast libraries in the country. Ironically, we hardly ever see a writer go to places wherein words are revered and preserved, let alone cultivated. Why does this matter? Where there is a rise of anti-intellectualism, there is a lack of appreciation for the work of the intellect: writing, painting, storytelling, acting – name any sort of discipline.
During the 2007-2008 and the 2023-2024 writers strikes of Hollywood, the main points of contention were around compensation and how writers were or were not valued members within the filming industry. Arguments over residuals for DVDs and the exclusion of AI technology may seem like no brainers (paying people for their labor), but what happens when this labor is no longer valued? What happens to work, but more importantly, what happens to the people who work? Rather than the intellectual theft being one that robs an individual, it robs from the community at large, wherein the writer buys coffee, employees the handyman, buys a train ticket, buys groceries, and goes to the mechanic. Laziness endeavors to steal from this community’s resources, originality, and collaboration. Those who believe in automating art suppose art is an isolated experience; it is between you and the artistic object, though art actually exists communally. Not only wherein the artist lives within a community, but the artist within fellow artistic communities. Yes, Instagram AI technology can create a Picasso or Matisse “inspired” painting, but it cannot recreate the salon walls of Gertrude Stein’s home in Paris where her infamous painters would compete to see who would be the one to gain the coveted spot. Programing systems can never create new realities. What I mean is that while it can gather everything that ever was, it cannot predict what will be to the absolute percentile. New realities are the conditions wherein art is made. Bauhaus could not exist as an art movement without it’s school being right between two world wars. It will only ever be as creative or smart as the smartest person that has ever existed; this means that eventually there will be a person who will create something that it could not imagine. Machines cannot evolve; therefore, they cannot create art. In Ellison’s I Have No Mouth, And I Must Scream (1967), the machine called “IAM,” which enslaves the five remaining members of humanity, cannot see past the coding he was given which was, as a war computer, meant to destroy. A hypothetical AI machine cannot evolve past what we program it to do, meaning it can never ascend.
I would also argue that the chronicle of art is precious. The actual work that goes into the art is also the thing that makes it good. George Seraut’s exquisite painting, Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, took time, which is the primary thing we have as a truly limited resource. When someone is dedicating that much time to something, it signals to those around them, “This must be important if they thought it worthwhile to spend that much time!” I am not suggesting that the amount of time spent on something is the only indication of quality, but rather the creation of art is a wonderful combination of a precious recipe: time, inspiration, labor, focus, medium, patience, perseverance, and many more. All these make up the recipe for good art. Shortcuts using AI technology weaken the palate and make less sophisticated dishes. It’s the difference between eating a wonderful ramen noodle dish that contains a 20-hour bone broth, fresh vegetables, and organic meat and a packet of instant ramen. The former is a full experience; the latter satisfies the present craving, but does not prioritize the pleasure, the nourishment, or the meaning of good, Japanese ramen.
Furthermore, while AI systems are prone to mistakes or miscalculations, what’s ultimately excluded from the inherent design of AI is the ability to turn a so-called “mistake” or accident into a miracle. You cannot program a mistake, or rather, the metamorphosis of the imperfect journey. Consider Hadley Hemingway, wife of noted writer, Ernest Hemingway, who lost the total canon of her husband’s writing in 1922 after putting them into a suitcase which was subsequently stolen. While the loss was intense, Hemingway credits the loss with the reason that he was able to write all the fiction he did afterwards (and also the reason he eventually divorced Hadley). The unexpected or “improvised” turns of fate are often the way that art grows and evolves, which is why AI does not know how to work, truly. It does not know how to read something out loud; it does not know how to collaborate – collaboration in the sense that it will look outside oneself for perspective. As the saying goes for the actor or actress, “You do movies to get famous, TV to get rich, and theater to get good.” Live theater being the ultimate crucible (pun intended). The multiple variables of everything that could go wrong in theater and drama are the things that make performance art the ultimate middle finger to AI. You can use AI to catalog props, but it cannot ensure the prop will be used “correctly” by an actor, if at all. You can tell AI, “Write me an angry monologue,” but AI cannot prevent the actor from getting drunk beforehand and forgetting half of it, only to then improvise something so hilarious that the playwright puts it into the script instead. It’s no mistake that the movie BiRDMAN or The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance (2014) is about a washed up Hollywood actor putting on a theatrical adaptation of a Raymond Carver’s short story collection, the main soundtrack for which is the city itself and unrelenting jazz music, specifically jazz drums. Jazz is a musical genre that divides us because it too is unpredictable. Metropolitan cacophony is also unpredictable, which is to say, human. There are sirens, screaming, public transit, people talking, music etc. You could not have AI write a satisfying jazz album because it would sound too perfect. It would be mapped out, which isn’t jazz. The ultimate shoe-toss for the person who wishes to combat AI is to see live performances, where you know at literally any moment something could go wrong, and yet the moment that everything goes right; it’s a miracle.
ALEXANDRA AVILA 