AI art is happening, and it will change the industry. Right now it isn’t perfect. It’s messy and blunt in places, but it’s getting better every day. My feeling is that almost every blog or newsletter now is at least started with an AI prompt, or just plainly generated and posted*. AI is already in the background of many creative tasks: the lo-fi music I listen to, small edits, mockups, planning and search. Sometimes it’s obvious. And often it’s not.

New creators are pushing these tools further than ever. The images people can get with a good prompt are often stunning. And some AI improvements are quietly becoming part of our everyday work: generative fill, color replacement, color matching, smart selection. Ten years ago these were the chores that could take days — cutting images for packaging, matching colors, cleaning edges, finding the right image for Ad’s. Today many of those problems are one function away. That changes everything, especially in a pipeline.

Many artists say they will never use AI for creating. I respect that principle. But the reality is complicated. The industry sets a baseline: a level of quality and a rate of output that people expect to pay for. If everyone around you uses tools to produce more content faster, the baseline changes. You have to ask: what counts as work now? Is a single finished image enough, or do you also need the reel, the behind-the-scenes, the short clip, the caption, the story? The path of someone who only wants to focus on draftsmanship is getting narrower. You need to be better at craft, but you also need to produce constant content to stay visible. That is a real conundrum.

The choice a creator faces is brutal and personal. One path is to silently suffer and give yourself over to craft — long, expensive work that pays in skills and depth but rarely in quick visibility. Building an audience that cares about that kind of work, or breaking into entertainment industry, often takes decades, not years. The other path is to design everything for the algorithm: keep reinventing yourself, chase formats that bring views, and feed the machine with constant output. That gets you attention faster, but it leads to burnout and a fractured practice — you are always rediscovered and must always perform. Both choices have real costs. A middle way would be ideal, but I wish to have an answer, but I feel like there is none.

Is this a natural progression? Maybe. Platforms taught us that “follow” means little compared to views. TikTok and similar feeds are not about following people — they are about showing whatever keeps viewers watching. Quality, dedication, and thoughtful work matter less to the algorithm than repeatable hooks that keep people scrolling. Business wins when the platform’s logic and the user’s taste line up. That means the platform pushes what gets views, and creators, if they want to survive, learn to make that kind of content.

This shift hurts certain types of art. Intentional, well-thought-out content and sharp critique need time and nuance. But the feeds reward short, easy-to-digest loops. We are moving from clever, satirical content toward content that sells hope: beauty, health, wealth. These themes are simple and addictive. They keep people watching, so the platform promotes them. There is no ethics in that process — only results.

Who is to blame? The platforms are obvious: they design engagement-first systems and optimize for what keeps people on the page. But users are not innocent. We choose what to watch and share. We reward fast feelings over slow thinking. Creators complain about the algorithm while also shaping their work to please it. That contradiction is real and a bit hypocritical, but it’s how the system functions.

What will the future bring? It’s hard to say. The world feels foggy, like we are waiting for something to give — a breakthrough in AI, a cultural shift, a new set of values. Maybe we will move back toward “less is more.” Maybe people will get bored of constant stimulation and choose slower, deeper work. Or maybe acceleration only increases. Both sides of a spectrum are currently visible.

It feels like we’re being shaped without noticing: AI art is becoming normal, and that’s not all bad. Free tools like Canva with AI helpers and instant mockups let anyone make “polished” visuals fast. Click, drag, export — congratulations, you’re a “designer.” That levels the playing field, but it also pushes designers (studios & agencies) toward a luxury market where deep skill is acknowledged as special. Small businesses usually prefer being seen over having strong core values, so visibility often wins over careful branding.

Future in practice: a few ideas I keep coming back to that might help, not rules, just small positions to try:

— Keep your craftsmanship alive. Machines are fast, but your particular hand, the way you see shapes, the choices you develop over years — those are harder to replicate. Invest in that.

— Protect space for private thoughts. Not everything needs to be posted. Practice and enjoy hobbies in private — they shape you and give depth to your work.

— Adaptability is important. Use AI as a tool, not a replacement. Let it help you explore ideas and solve tasks, but keep the authorship and decisions in human hands.

— Be transparent. Tell people when something was assisted, when it wasn’t. That’s not only ethical — it builds trust.

I don’t mean to say platforms are all bad. They can also amplify voices that used to remain invisible. But the choice we face is both practical and moral: do we join “the spinning wheel running down the mountain” and optimize for the machine? Or do we decide when to speed up and when to slow down? I feel guilt for wanting both — to be fast and visible, and also deep and careful.

Maybe the future will be both: mass, rapid content on one side and a smaller, slower recovery of craft on the other. That smaller part won’t survive on nostalgia alone. It will survive if it is clear about its purpose, honest about its methods, and confident in its values.

These are the thoughts that spin in my head at night: anxiety about change, tenderness for the work I love. If you feel the same vertigo, that’s enough for now — we share the horizon, and that might be the start of a real conversation.