It started innocently enough: I penned heartfelt lyrics, then let AI finish the song. The result? A masterpiece that had the younger generation in my family singing its praises.
The older ones? Let's just say scepticism never goes out of style. Before long I was cruising in my car, enjoying my own creation in a loop.
That was until a colleague innocently asked, "Hey, whose song is this?"
Let's break this down like a logical scientist (because I'm not an artist). A song has three parts: the music, the singer, and the lyrics.
Only one-third of this song is mine — the lyrics.
The two-thirds? Pure AI magic, with prompts inspired by my IT-savvy ex-schoolmate, Rusli. So, is the song really mine?
My wife's wisdom kicked in: "Stop overthinking and just enjoy it." But I couldn't. Instead, I looked to the Internet for answers.
This journey led me to podcasts about collaborative art with AI. Enter Claire Silver, a so-called "collaborative artist" who doesn't paint but prompts. Is she stealing ideas because AI learns from the Internet?
Claire's story got me thinking: how often do we unknowingly celebrate creativity without questioning its origin?
Take this hypothetical scenario, for example. Imagine you've just built a sleek bungalow in Damansara Heights. There's an empty wall in the living room, and your artsy background from that brief flirtation with creativity before accountancy school at LSE tells you exactly what you want.
You call up your old friend Kamel, the struggling artist.
You tell him your idea, negotiate the price down to RM3,000, and bask in the glory of being labelled a "smart entrepreneur".
The painting looks incredible on your wall, and you proudly tell every guest, "This was my idea, and I got it cheap".
Then, 22 months later, you see a Facebook post from another Damansara friend, "Nice and cheap AI painting by Kamel".
Wait, what? You call Kamel. Turns out he used AI for your piece too, thanks to a RM20 monthly subscription. Suddenly, you feel less a savvy art collector than an unsuspecting victim.
But were you really robbed? After all, you loved the painting until you found out how it was made.
Which brings us back to Silver. Is she an artist or not? And here's the twist: Silver is just an avatar. The "real" artist is anonymous, perhaps non-existent. But her paintings are still captivating, downloadable, and printable for any wall.
So, does it matter who or what made them? Back to my song. When someone asks if it's mine, I think I'll just say, "The lyrics are mine, the rest is AI".
The truth is, I'll leave the judgment to the listener. If you enjoy it, enjoy it. But will knowing the truth change that enjoyment?
These are the questions we need to confront. AI isn't going anywhere. Whether it's the euphoria of innovation or a dystopia of blurred ownership depends on one thing, our truthful thoughts.
So as you hum along to my AI-assisted hit or admire that AI-crafted pseudo-Picasso masterpiece on your wall, please ask yourself, does it really matter who gets the credit? Or are we just here to enjoy the ride?
* The writer is a scientist who collaborated with a large language model in writing this piece