Steppenbitch AI Roundup and Reflections
Considering the promotion of one's work, the guilt behind using AI art, and the joy of creation
I started playing with Midjourney about ten days ago using the content of my 100-word stories for prompts. I approached this project with trepidation, as noted in the previous post, knowing the negative feelings many artists have about AI art—understandably so.
Earlier this week, my friend Kashara, asked me for some words to prompt a story for ChatGPT as we sat in a coffee shop. I was surprised with by the results and wondered if the touch of my human spark, my soul, is enough to compete with AI generated stories. I know the answer when I look at the work of others; this was a self-conscious questioning of my value. I am still uneasy about using AI for my stories, and to ease my guilt, I note that if I were to use visual art in my published work, I’d hire an artist.
I never want to hurt anyone with my work. I need to be vulnerable and honest with myself in order to create and share. Both require trust. Trust that intention, an open heart and mind, and ongoing education will lessen the chance of hurt, while acknowledging it is certain mistakes will be made. Trust that because I am alive I have something particular to share, if only I will dig for it and refine it.
It has been an interesting experience reading through the manuscript of Steppenbitch. I am at once delighted by many of the stories now that I am years removed from writing them, and I am made insecure by them, questioning:
“Are they juvenile?”
“Could this be interpreted in a way I didn’t intend?”
“Is it my responsibility to make the meaning clear as glass?”
I know I sing the song of the artist, the rhythm of the human experience—an uneven, ever-changing tune of confidence, worry, and the bass of desire.
Who is the singer of this song though? It is everyone, but shouldn’t it be funneled through me if it is from me? I didn’t create for so long because I recognized the multiple crushing voices. I am searching, for the intuitive voice from the well and wondering when, if, it is time to share. And sharing invites more voices, especially today when the creative must put on many hats to promote her work.
Promotion feels strange. It makes me feel like a shady salesperson, knocking at your door, asking, convincing—does it come across as begging? Then, my promotion is met with silence, with a few friends supporting the effort. As I post to little response, I wonder if I need to be honest with myself and recognize that my work is not yet up to par, if I need to change my promotion style by following trends, or if sharing it as intended is creative integrity. I question how much art is altered, even in the making, by the idea of promotion.
Isn’t sending all my work to literary journals and presses a form of self-promotion? I try to view it as advocating for myself, being good to all of the layers of selves that are still within me.
Despite all of the questioning, I’ve enjoyed my time with Midjourney. It’s been fun to play with prompts. Fun—that’s what I’ve been seeking in creation. Midjourney allows me to bring to the screen what I don’t have the skill to create with digital or traditional art forms. It is also a collaboration because I don’t have complete control over what Midjourney makes of my prompts. Sometimes the imagery matches my vision. Other times, it adds a layer to the story that moves me.
Alright, enough. Here are the images and stories from the past ten days.
These images fit the story for me. There is a sense of luxurious melancholy and pretty horror to this generated art.
I like that there are women young and old in these images, some confident, some melancholic. Anyone can be a Living Time Capsule. Many of us see, first, our parents and grandparents as “stuck in their time.” Then, as we grow and leave behind childhood, nostalgia grows with us, and we begin the process of becoming Living Time Capsules.
It seems to be happening younger and younger with each generation. I don’t believe in the concept of having a “time of your life” of “back in your day.” As long as you’re alive, it’s your time. My intent with this story isn’t to make fun of this woman. I think we get pushed into becoming of our generation—the style, the music, the mindset, too, because we feel left out of popular culture, or maybe, don’t identify with it anymore for various reasons, but partially because we become less vulnerable, less receptive to letting ourselves be moved by art. I also understand the comfort that comes with indulging in the past—our memories have washed it in rose-gold warmth (if we’re lucky). There’s nothing wrong with enjoying the past, but the present and the future, too, is open for you.
Another minor aspect of this story is the simple joy of listening to someone talk about a time and/or a place I couldn’t have known. I’d give anything to listen to my grandma talk about being a little girl on a farm, though she was much more than that aspect of her life. If you want to talk about being a kid in the 2000s, getting old in the 70s, watching a movie yesterday, I’m happy to listen.
I love taking myself to the movies. I started going alone a couple of years ago to the 11am showings because I knew the theater would likely be empty. I enjoyed the time because of the sense of possibility I felt in that space. In the past year, the Plaza Theatre has been my safe and inspiring place. Added to the feeling of hope, is a sense of community, though I have never spoken to a person there. The movies as a place of both reinvention, truth, and romanticization—that’s what was behind this story. The imagery added to what was bubbling beneath the surface of the words. The images of the retro-looking woman are the most literal, though the depth and multitudinous self begins to open. The pink and green imagery can also represent not the appearance of a person, but what lies within—the soul.
I’ve wanted to expand this story, maybe one day. The imagery reminds me a bit of an alternate universe version of Junji Ito's story "The Hanging Balloons."
AI has clearly never used a toothbrush.
The house we rent was built in 1931. Soon after moving, I found a quartz someone had buried in the front yard. Over the front door, I saw that the address had once been 56. The indentation was still there—who knows how many layers of white paint hadn’t covered it. I spent a lot of time those first few months wondering about all the life, all the stories lost to time, gone with the people who lived here 90 years ago, 60 years ago, or 5 years ago. We will be another story that belongs to the memory of this house but is lost to others when someone else moves in one day. I wish my house looked like the AI image. Dreamy.
Last year was the year of the heart. I'm still looking to set my heart on fire, but while it's still inside of my body. I'd be cool with that now, sure.
Thanks you for being here. Until next time.
Fascinating! AI seems to be looking at you looking at it, looking at you. Notice the endless multiple reflections. All the looking.