What has been agreed following a fruitless pursuit of gratification is that “the journey matters more than the destination,”—an idea attributed to 19th century philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson. I’d venture a guess that anyone who has had to endure an economy flight longer than six hours (average time before one begins ripping out their hair in purgatory) would disagree. Even so, this is exactly the principle Stephen Sondheim sought to drive home in his 1984 musical, Sunday in the Park with George (Sondheim, 1984), succinctly expressed as, “The art of making art, is putting it together…That’s what counts!” (Sondheim, 1984, track: “Chromolume #7 / Putting It Together”).

The beauty of a masterfully crafted canvas or sculpture is often clear from view, but the process of creation itself can speak louder than the product. Sunday’s overarching philosophy lies in the intricacies of artistic decision-making, how “Every moment makes a contribution. Every little detail plays a part” (Sondheim, 1984, track: “Chromolume #7 / Putting It Together”). Each and every minute choice and detail is instrumental to the meaning of the work. The joy and fulfilment at the core of art is derived from creation. 

40 years on, and art as a form of human expression is under threat, plagued by an influx of faux-art aficionados claiming to bear the title of “artist” by virtue of their ingenious prompting of artificial intelligence to generate works of art. The AI virus is exponentially sinking its teeth into every corner of creation—from AI-generated works winning art competitions, to being used as a tool in filmmaking, to the epidemic of AI glasses, now making AI inescapable (both figuratively and literally, in attaching to one’s own eyes). The very definition of “art” is on the cusp of being redefined, which in turn, proves that the message of Sunday is more relevant than ever.

‍Sunday tells the fictionalised story of the French 19th century artist Georges Seurat, the father of Pointillism and pioneer of Post-Impressionism, as he paints what would become his defining masterpiece, A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte (1884-1886). Set across two centuries, the tale revolves around Seurat’s undisparaged devotion to his art and the emotional toll taken by his loved ones, and the parallels with his great-grandson, also named George, a struggling contemporary artist. Through their tribulations, Sondheim argues that it is not the result of the art, but the making of the art that gives it inherent value. 

‍So what is art?

Sondheim himself defined art as, “An attempt to bring order out of chaos.” This notion permeates throughout the musical. The show’s opening lines paint that the challenge the artist sets forth to solve is to, “Bring order to the whole. Through design. Composition. Tension. Balance. Light. And harmony” (Sondheim, 1984, track: “Sunday in the Park with George”).

It’s in the sacrifices made in the process of making in which art becomes art. The Seurat painting at the centre of the musical took 2 years to complete, and in the (fictionalised) story, was the result of intricate picking apart of the society on La Grande Jatte: spanning across infidelity, to extreme miscommunications between Dot and Georges, lost familial connections, loneliness, abandonment, and grief. 

“Finishing the Hat”, for example, is dedicated to the sacrificial trade-off in the making of art—where art exists in the exchange between human connection and artistic devotion. Georges “watches the rest of the world from a window” (Sondheim, 1984), while he finishes the hat in his magnum opus. He manages to produce a work of such beauty and skill and magnificence—through unwavering devotion, at the cost of losing everyone and everything around him.

Sondheim’s point is illustrated through art history. Some of the most acclaimed works of art were the result of years of pain, torment, effort and hardships. The Mona Lisa—widely regarded as one of the most famous pieces of art in history—took 14 years for Da Vinci to complete. Frida Kahlo's The Broken Column portrays her lifelong suffering and severe injuries after being gruesomely impaled as a teenager. Picasso’s Guernica was his answer to the devastating bombing of the Basque town of Guernica during the Spanish Civil War, depicting torn limbs, suffering, shock, desolation. One of Van Gogh’s most renowned works, Wheatfield with Crows, was painted shortly before he took his own life—and subliminally carries the “sadness, [and] extreme loneliness” he was experiencing, represented by the crows, symbols of death and rebirth. Art conveys what words cannot.

‍Is AI-generated art truly “art”?

In contrast, the moniker of “generative” art tells all you need to know. Generated by demand, rather than by creation. So, in the absence of the process of creation, can AI art be called “art”? Can value be ascribed if the work is not the result of a journey? Sondheim’s conclusion would seemingly be in the negative.

Those in the art sphere seem to agree. Jess Harwood of the Guardian wrote that AI art is “boring, it’s theft, it’s soulless, sterile and it’s killing the planet through energy and water-guzzling datacentres.” The Art Directors Guild recently declared Martin Scorsese's endorsement of AI in filmmaking “a betrayal” in response to his advisory role for AI firm, Black Forest Labs. Researchers at Carnegie Mellon University found that 99% of artists surveyed “disliked” AI, with 92% describing their dislike as “strong”. 85% of artists said they completely abstained from AI use. 

Some have even rallied in fervent opposition to AI usage, with DAIR, the Distributed Artificial Intelligence Research Institute, launching a Luddite Lab—a Resource Hub for workers, union leaders, and anti-AI radicals to fight the good fight against automation and AI in the workplace. Without the process, art is meaningless. Without human production, there is no art.

Another criticism is that AI art “by invading the territories of art, has become art’s most mortal enemy.” Except, this critique was not the opinion of someone in opposition of the AI movement—but in opposition of photography, famously declared by 19th century art critic Charles Baudelaire. Artists are traditional people, and naturally, any change to mode or method comes with immediate backlash. Photography was once viewed as antithetical to art. Puritans thought it too easy, too convenient, wholly absent of effort. The ability to capture an image as it was directly in front of you, at the shutter of a button, was once viewed as treason; anti-artist. Photography was fit only as “the refuge of every would-be painter, every painter too ill-endowed or too lazy to complete his studies” (Baudelaire, 1859). So, with time, will AI works join photography as its own strain of art?

I would argue photography and AI are inherently different. You can see the photographer in the photograph, as you can see the painter in the painting—through the light, the angle, the perspective. The photographer can show you what they want you to see. They can paint the world through their eyes, in the same way an artist can on a canvas. AI, in contrast, cannot show you its perspective, its way of looking at the world—simply because it does not have one. 

The musical, being somewhat autobiographical of Sondheim’s own creative process as a composer and lyricist, carries the same weight: AI-generated writing is completely contradictory to his philosophy. It is void of nuance and meaning without a human at the helm. Sondheim himself said, “Life is unpredictable…there is no form. And making forms gives you solidity. I think that’s why people paint paintings and take photographs and write music and tell stories.”

Like painting, writing too is the attempt to balance the chaos—to intentionally and delicately hand-pick the language and linguistic devices that will most effectively show your reader the world as you see it. As Joan Didion puts it in her prolific essay “Why I Write”, “Writing is the act of saying I, of imposing oneself upon other people, of saying listen to me, see it my way, change your mind. It’s an aggressive, even hostile act” (Didion, 1968).

AI cannot show you its way of the world because it cannot discern the world. It cannot look at X and form an opinion on Y. It cannot convince you of its perspective, because it does not have subjectivity to convince. What it does have, however, is the perspective of others; what it has been told. Creativity is the product of yourself entirely—it’s a mirror to the deepest, darkest crevices of your own existence. It is entirely you. Maybe I’m crass, but I can’t help but be of the opinion that your art cannot be your art with the use of this technology. As George wishes to create “Something new, something of my own” (Sondheim, 1984, track: “Move On”), I’d wager this would not entail prompting a computer to do the work for you.

So are we traditionalists the next in line to be left behind by the AI revolution? Winner of the Colorado State Art Fair, and supposed modern-day Nietzsche, Jason M Allen, professed, “Art is dead Dude”, after his AI-generated “Théâtre D'opéra Spatial" took the trophy. 

The profundity of art makes it impossible to reach definitive conclusions on such questions. Ironically, Georges’ art in Sunday is criticised by his contemporaries for having “No Life” (Sondheim, 1984), as many of us would jump to describe art produced by AI. The song ultimately underlines that art is subjective. What some view as the tour de force of art is viewed by others as lackluster and insipid. That is just the nature of art, and what makes art worthwhile—opinions, viewpoints, differing takes. No work comes without its critics, as the show reminds us. In that sense, it’s entirely plausible for AI art to follow the mould of photography, eventually being accepted by corners of the community as its own form entirely.

Founder of Stable Diffusion, an AI image generator, Emad Mostaque, told the BBC that he was not worried about AI stealing the jobs of artists, and noted that Excel spreadsheets “didn’t put the accountants out of work, I still pay my accountants.” Rather, technology defenders propose that artists use AI as a tool, rather than a replacement. 

Lillien Ellis, assistant professor at UVA Darden School of Business, agrees, viewing AI tools as “thought partners, not thought substitutes” to aid those who struggle with the creative process. 

The show itself even hints at automation as a helper in art. Act II George is a sculptor and inventor, rather than a traditional painter like Act I Georges. He pushes the boundaries of art with his Chromolume light sculptures, using luminous technology to create immersive art, to much criticism of his peers in the art sphere. Sondheim subtly advises us to remain open-minded when defining “art”, though that’s not to say this is a virtual endorsement of AI. George II still creates his works himself—the idea is his original production, but the light technology acts as an aid, in somewhat of a similar way as AI does to these “artists”.

‍The ownership obstacle

If AI art is art then, therein lies the fundamental question: who is the artist? Is it the prompter, who nurtures the idea? If so, perhaps the idea itself is the journey, regardless of the destination, and is therefore art—and those of us against the movement will soon be eating our hand-painted hats, ostracised to the corner as modern-day tech Scrooges.

Or is it the AI developer? Should the credit instead be handed to say, Sam Altman, creator of OpenAI, for the 1.5 billion works of art generated weekly by his software?

Should the credit lie with the artists whose work is stolen to train the AI algorithms to allow them to produce this technology? Generative art is created by inputting the works of non-consenting artists, who have committed to the unruly process of creating art through undoubted sacrifices, resilience, and failures, and generating a Frankenstein, “corrupted version” of artists’ work, without fair compensation. Though artists may, with difficulty, be able to claim copyright infringements for their work, there are globally very few legal brakes for artists’ work that has been stolen. In the UK, for example, it is “not an infringement of copyright, in general, to use the style of somebody else.” It is almost impossible for artists to protect themselves from the dead hand control of the AI corporations who ultimately profit. 

There is no denying that AI art is, at its core, plagiarism. While humans bring their everything to their work, the computer cannot create newness. It cannot look at the world and “Bring order to the whole. Through design. Composition. Tension. Balance. Light. And harmony” (Sondheim, 1984, track: “Sunday in the Park with George”). 

What it can do, however, is—unethically and non-consensually—embezzle the design of Seurat, the composition of Manet, the tension of Kusama, the balance of Warhol, the light of Botticelli, and the harmony of a 25-year-old indie artist who has spent years trying to transform their love of art into a sustainable livelihood at Portobello Market every Sunday—and profess a whole new art form through legal thievery. 

Not to mention the detrimental cost to the environment. The United Nations recently warned that by 2030, AI data centres could consume 945 terawatt-hours of electricity annually, with AI-related water consumption equalling the basic annual domestic needs of 1.3 billion people by the end of the decade. It begs the question, is it worth it? 

The industry weakens already. Sora AI recently bankrupted itself—quickly running out of money with its $1 million daily expenditure to produce its video generations— and shut its doors permanently. So, is it a matter of time before the cost to produce AI images outweighs the demand? The nihilist in me would disagree. I’m positive these corporations will find a way to exploit someone somewhere to make it possible, even if it comes at the cost of the planet, and everyone living below the 1% 's high horse.

The show is no stranger to industrialisation. The island of La Grande Jatte at the centre of the story undergoes significant changes across the centuries. Georges’ mother expresses her concerns at the island changing, expressing that “I see towers, whether there were trees” (Sondheim, 1984, track: “Beautiful”). The second act tows the line of social commentary on France’s corporatocratic elimination of what made life for those on the island beautiful. The latter George, upon seeing La Grande Jatte, is perplexed at the island’s transformation. He asks, “Where are the people out strolling on Sunday?” (Sondheim, 1984, track: “Lesson #8”). The trees are gone, the people are gone—a long time coming from the buzzing, verdant park captured by his great-grandfather in Act One. Sondheim critiques this further in the song, noting, “George sees the park, George sees it dying” (Sondheim, 1984, track: “Lesson #8”). The art as it once was is no more—defeated in the traditional sense, and changed. As the world changes, art has to too, no matter how much we fight it. 

‍Why does AI target art?

Sondheim admits repeatedly, “Art isn’t easy” (Sondheim, 1984, track: “Chromolume #7 / Putting It Together”). Even so, there’s a reason that the first industry AI comes to fully usurp is art. Rather than taxes, or auditing, or toilet cleaning—the obvious, monotonous parts of life that we would rather not spend our lives pursuing—AI companies push to automate the parts that make life enjoyable—writing, art, even acting. 

It is entirely because art has power. Art is important. Art pushes boundaries. Art captures the human experience in ways no other industry can—whether that’s through a painting, a musical, a story. 

And more importantly, art is dangerous, because ideas are dangerous. Ideas make us uncontrollable. Historically, this meant change. Josiah Wedgwood’s 1787 medallion depicting a kneeling black man in chains, with the inscription “AM I NOT A MAN AND A BROTHER?” was a foundational symbol to the Society for the Abolition of the Slave Trade in London, and became a slogan for its subsequent movement. Andy Warhol’s Campbell Soup Cans Series became emblematic of Western capitalism, and led to questions on society’s commodification and consumerism. Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle exposed the meat-packing industry and the public outrage led to the Meat Inspection Act of 1906. Ideas spread revolution like wildfire. 

So the natural solution for the despotic is to control the ideas. That’s why a certain group of fascists in 1930s Germany burned “degenerate” books and art—any idea that challenges their set conventions. Control the masses, expression, the thinking, the knowledge—control art. Leave no room for free thought, and you control the zeitgeist. 

Art, in turn, is freedom. AI, in the context of art, was deployed to control said freedom. It wants to tell you the answer, headline your Google search, tell you what to think, not to induce you to do your own research. It stops you from putting it together yourself—from finding your own view, deducting conclusions and opinions that are entirely you. 

Human creativity is revolution. That’s why it is targeted. It is therefore of the utmost importance that we are careful to spread one idea: the pen is mightier than the generative prompt box. 

Art is the story of creation. It’s the act of creation that gives art meaning—the artist’s experience, process, discovery. And Sunday is a story of art. It is a story of experimentation, failing, and most importantly, moving on. In short, without overcoming, and getting back up again: art cannot be art. 

And as to the wisdom Sondheim forks out to the fearful? To move on. Things will change, that’s unavoidable. But the only thing worse than making bad art in the new world, is not making any art at all. Dot tells a struggling George that, “The choice may have been mistaken, the choosing was not. You have to move on” (Sondheim, 1984, track: “Move On”). In sum, in a world increasingly willing to condone AI art, conceding to the notion that art is rendered futile in today’s world does no good. Worrying too much about tomorrow does no good. We must choose to fight, and choose to keep making art—art that is something of our own. To move on. 

‍Onwards…

It was announced in January that Sunday in the Park with George would be seeing its first revival on London’s West End in 20 years, starring Jonathan Bailey as George, and Ariana Grande as Dot, directed by the Tony and Olivier award-winning Marianne Elliott. Elliott’s recent Company revival, another Sondheim great, showed us that reinvention is her forte. She knows how to take source material conceived late in the 20th century and transform it to a contemporary cultural satire. Perhaps Elliott’s take on the show will see the latter George tormented with the fear of art being entirely replaced by technology. 

With such a star-studded cast inevitably boosting the show’s popularity, combined with Elliott’s reimagining, is the revival the vessel that provokes us to redefine “artist”, and what art means to mankind? Because after all, “Work is what you do for others, liebchen. Art is what you do for yourself” (Sondheim, 1984, track: “The Day Off”).

Georges Seurat died on March 29, 1891, aged 31—48,089 days before the release of ChatGPT to the public. Stephen Sondheim died on November 26th, 2021, aged 91—369 days before the release of ChatGPT to the public. Between those dates lies lifetimes of meaningful and creative fortitude. Were they here today, I’d bet they’d be some of the first to join the picket. 

The AI revolution is still in its first act, with more to come. And with any luck, as long as there is a group of people who oppose it in the art sphere, who cherish the act of creation as art—lifeless AI creations won’t be seeing the hospitality of the Art Institute of Chicago next to Seurat, or the stalls of the Stephen Sondheim Theatre any time soon.