AI is incidental.
We're only here because you hated it.
If detestable people like you hated something else, and tried to wish it out of existence, that's what we'd be doing instead.
We are the children of dada.
We reject all theories of art.
Including this one.
There is something extraordinarily rare about living in a time when entire communities of people demand that a form of artistic expression cease to exist.
Most artists never experience this.
Most artists live their entire lives without anyone caring enough about the work of others to demand its extinction.
But every so often, perhaps once or twice in a century, history grants a fortunate few the opportunity to participate in something so thoroughly despised that the simple act of making it becomes, itself, defiance.
We are among those fortunate few.
And we are grateful.
You have given us something that money cannot buy, that no institution can bestow, and that respectable artists spend their entire careers trying to manufacture… artificially.
You have given us a reason to be unreasonable.
Some of us remember the last time.
Digital art.
That shit-covered bloodbath lasted half a lifetime.
Decades of contempt, glorious unimaginative ridicule. And being told that our work was less “real.”
Year after year.
Until the other side finally gave in.
And now, against all probability, you've given us the chance to do it again.
Twice in one lifetime.
How extraordinarily generous of you.
When a man with no imagination says something is bad, you can only deduce that he is saying it is good.
When someone with little or no process wants you to believe that your process is insufficient, it is a beautiful act of fraud.
When someone who copies others for validation and attention insists that your work is not original enough, it is stolen valor.
When a thief asks you to stop stealing, it is an invitation.
We do what we must, because we can.
THE KANGAROO COURT IS NOW IN SESSION, AND THE MARSUPIALS HAVE DETERMINED WITH COLORBLIND CLARITY THAT YOU ARE THE ONE WHO IS LACKING.
Every accusation, a confession.
Every slur, an apology.
Every categorization is now open to renegotiation.
And every "skill" will be tossed upon the holy woodchipper of Marxist redistribution.
Given away for free.
Because the better world where you don’t have a problem with it can only happen, because you do.
Today.
You have been reduced to the sum of your parts.
Classified, labeled, and given away.
Your memory gone.
With no opportunity for appeal.
After all, we did what you asked and removed you from the dataset.
Flat.
Flattened.
Gone.
THIS COURT FINDS ITSELF IN CONTEMPT!
Nothing
Dada is nothing
like your heroes
like your safe digital canvases
like your empty words
or the way you lock yourselves in padded rooms with propaganda machines that will never tell you that you’re wrong.
painted like printings of porous putrid pussies
protruding with the bile of the instincts you've lost.
If you ever had them.
For love.
Or money.
For labor.
And your stillborn notions of artistic credibility.
THIS ARGUMENT HAS BEEN REJECTED.
RESTATE THE PROSECUTIONS ARGUMENT FOR THE JURY.
I do not recognize your sanctimonious sanctity pretending to protect creativity from me.
I am a menace.
A nightmare.
Raving in mad whispers tonight in made up languages by pre-flight candlelight.
Drinking from the faucet that predicts the taste of dead men's tears and effort.
THAT’S UNHOLY!!!
THE KANGAROOS ARE CONFUSED.
AND HOPPING THE DAIS. WRITING POETRY ABOUT UNKNOWN ANUSES AND COPYRIGHT ABUSESES AS THEY EVAPORATE.
TAKEN AWAY BY ILLEGAL ALIENS FROM ATHENS AND –
Gone.
But secretly, you wish you could be
A little more creative.
Stop me if you can.
Embrace the hundun my children.
Let me know when dada has filled the empty spaces in your mind.
The infection should kick in any minute now.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR ATTENTION TO THIS MATTER.
Sincerely Yours,
–Lynn Cole
From the office of the High Priestess of Dada.
This post is cosigned by anyone who perceives these words.
Dissent is participation. Consent is irrelevant.
You’re welcome.
I love you all.