ANDRÉ MARTINEZ
Artificial Intelligence as a Space for Thought
Notes from an Artist-Researcher on Language, Mediation, and Creation in the Age of Artificial Intelligence
André Martinez
June 2026
I began writing this essay long before I started using artificial intelligence. In fact, it began decades ago, although I didn’t realize it at the time.
Looking back, I realize that a relatively small set of questions gradually took shape throughout my career, resurfacing with each new creative venture. I can recognize this process even from the time when, after years of practicing dance, I picked up a small digital camera and began making films without ever having learned the technical aspects of filmmaking. I brought with me a body and repertoires developed in other fields, along with a way of creating that found, in that new medium, the conditions to produce something capable of making sense to other people as well.
What, after all, makes me an artist? If it’s not merely technical mastery of a language, what do I need to be able to do to create what I technically don’t yet know how to do? What happens to a language when I appropriate its means from repertoires and ways of working established in other fields? What creative skills come into play when new mediations transform the conditions of creation? And, broadening my perspective beyond my own practice, how do these transformations reorganize the forms of collaboration, circulation, recognition, and value?
These questions have never been confined to a single field of work. They have permeated my practice as an artist, researcher, mentor of creative processes, group facilitator, and scholar of the relationships between creativity, the economy, and social transformation. They have taken the form of songs, images, video dances, essays, methodologies, organizational architectures, collaborative processes, and investigations into the creative economy. The languages changed, the contexts changed, but the inquiry remained essentially the same.
Whereas I once viewed these experiences as relatively independent chapters in my journey, today I feel that they all reveal different facets of the same phenomenon.
Dance taught me that thinking also takes place through the body.
Moving between different languages led me to realize that the specific technical mastery of a field does not exhaust the skills needed to create within it. Repertoires and ways of working developed elsewhere could not only become operational in a new language but also influence what that language itself became in my hands.
Mentoring creative processes drew my attention to another question: if the conditions of creation are constantly changing, perhaps the skills needed to create are changing as well. I then began to focus less on finished projects and more on the processes through which they emerge.
Group facilitation added a new layer to this research. As I observed collaborative processes, I came to realize that many of the most significant ideas did not belong entirely to a single person. They emerged from interactions, from the ability to listen, from a state of presence, and from the shared construction of meaning. In these processes, creativity revealed itself less and less as an exclusively individual attribute and increasingly as something directly related to the quality of relationships.
It was, however, Goethean phenomenology that introduced a decisive turning point in this journey. In recent years, the daily practice of journaling has become part of my discipline of observation. Writing, drawing, and describing ceased to be ways of recording what I already understood and became ways of seeing and understanding. Little by little, I came to realize that perception, thought, and expression did not occur in sequence. They constituted one another mutually and simultaneously.
I did not first understand and then write. I understood by writing. I did not first learn and then draw. I learned by drawing. Writing ceased to be merely an expression of thought and became one of the places where thought took shape. Drawing ceased to merely illustrate observation and became part of the act of observation itself. The notebook ceased to be an archive and became a space for inquiry.
It was during this period that the old image of thought as an essentially internal activity began to lose its hold on me. Not because I had developed a new theory of cognition, but because I began to recognize in my own experience something my body had already known since my very first dance steps.
Daily practice showed that thinking was an activity distributed across perception, gesture, language, and the world. Thought seemed less like a preformed content that later found expression, and more like a process—a way of thinking—that was constituted precisely in the act of expressing itself.
More recently, when generative artificial intelligences became part of my daily creative practice—particularly with the Daru, Andy Solan, and Portraces projects—I immediately recognized a structure that was familiar to me. The novelty did not lie in discovering that mediation could play a role in the formation of thought. I had already experienced this through writing, drawing, and phenomenological observation. The novelty lay elsewhere. For the first time, this mediation did not merely reflect—it responded. And it was precisely this difference that caught my attention.
I spent hundreds of hours working in dialogue with generative systems, which accompanied virtually every aspect of my practice: from songwriting to the investigation of complex problems.
It was in the midst of this daily routine that I began to notice a sensation that’s hard to describe. At many moments, I no longer felt as though I were merely using a piece of technology. Nor did I feel as though I were delegating part of the creative process to a machine. The experience seemed different. It was as if part of my thought had migrated to an external conversational space.
This perception did not contradict my phenomenological experience. On the contrary. It seemed to take it a step further. If writing could contribute to the formation of thought, what happened when that writing began to respond? If drawing could reorganize perception, what happened when a form of mediation was also capable of introducing relationships, counterpoints, and unexpected questions?
The question I had been asking then began to shift. At first, I sought to understand the role of artificial intelligence in creation. Today, I feel there is a prior question, one capable of cutting across all these experiences. Where, after all, does thought take place?
This is certainly a question far older than artificial intelligence. And perhaps that is precisely why it has become so urgent now.
When authorship becomes suspect
Of the many technological transformations I have witnessed throughout my creative career, none has sparked a reaction comparable to that of artificial intelligence.
When I began publishing posts on blogs in the early 2000s, there were discussions about the impact of that new medium. When I started using small digital cameras to produce dance videos and documentaries, the democratization of audiovisual production was a topic of discussion. Later came streaming, new platforms, and other transformations that profoundly reshaped the creative economy.
In all these instances, the debates focused primarily on the technologies themselves and on the works produced with them.
With my foray into music production using artificial intelligence, something different is happening. For the first time, I see people who, rather than enjoying or discussing the work, decide in advance that it doesn’t even deserve to be considered.
The mere fact that a song was produced using artificial intelligence is enough, in certain contexts, for it to be summarily dismissed as a legitimate artistic experience.
This intrigues me deeply.
Throughout my artistic practice, I have always come to terms with the fact that some people like a piece of work, others don’t, and many simply remain indifferent. What I’m encountering now seems to belong to a different order. It is not a disagreement about the quality of the work, but a refusal that precedes even the possibility of judging it. As if the medium used were enough to define its value.
I realize, then, that the controversy is no longer merely aesthetic. It becomes a discussion of legitimacy. The question is no longer simply whether a particular song is good or bad, but whether it can be recognized as a work worthy of appreciation.
This experience inevitably led me to a new question. Why does this particular technology seem to call into question the very status of the creator who uses it?
Over the decades, I have witnessed various moments when new forms of mediation have profoundly transformed the way works are created, produced, and circulated. None of them had provoked, with the same intensity, such a radical shift in the discussion.
I then began to suspect that artificial intelligence may not be producing merely a new technology. It seems to bring to light some very old ideas about what we mean by creation.
As soon as these reflections began to take shape, a curious coincidence occurred. Right around that time, Donna Haraway’s book "Staying with the Trouble" fell into my hands. It was a gift from a very dear friend that arrived just as I was still trying to understand what, after all, had changed in my experience of creating with artificial intelligence. I hadn’t sought out the book for the sake of this research. Rather, it was the reading that encountered an inquiry that was already underway.
Haraway did not answer the questions I had been formulating, nor did she directly address the experience I describe here. Her reflection, however, offered a perspective that reshaped my outlook: the refusal to reduce complex phenomena to the choice between salvation and catastrophe.
Returning to the debate on artificial intelligence, I began to realize how often this polarization seemed to resurface. On one side, the promise of a technology destined to replace human creativity and usher in a new era. On the other, the conviction that it represents the end of art, of authorship, or even of creative humanity itself.
Both positions, though opposed, seem to share the same tendency. Neither lingers long enough with the phenomenon. One celebrates it. The other condemns it. In doing so, they risk bringing the inquiry to a close precisely where the phenomenon’s complexity begins to emerge.
Perhaps this essay—and the entire process that led to it—was born precisely out of a refusal. Not a refusal of technology. Nor a refusal of its critics. But a refusal to accept quick answers to a transformation we have barely begun to experience.
Before deciding what artificial intelligence will do to creation, it seems to me more honest and thought-provoking to spend some time with the problem. To observe. To create. To make mistakes. To reframe questions. And to try to understand what this experience might be revealing—not only about artificial intelligence, but about our own ideas of authorship, creation, and thought. To start looking less at artificial intelligence and more at the conceptions of creation we’ve used to judge it.
The more I observe this debate, the more I get the impression that people with completely different positions—artificial intelligence enthusiasts, moderate critics, and radical opponents—silently share the same conception of authorship. Almost no one articulates it explicitly. It appears only as a backdrop to the arguments.
It was precisely this underlying assumption that piqued my interest. When an idea is constantly used without needing to be stated, it may run the risk of becoming taken for granted and, as a result, limiting the ways in which we are able to understand creation.
I then began to focus less on the arguments themselves and more on their underlying assumptions. Based on what I’ve observed in my own experience, I’ve gradually come to realize that many of these assumptions seem to revolve around two images of creation that have long circulated in our culture. The first is the idea that creation takes place essentially within the individual. The second is the idea that authorship lies primarily in the material execution of the work.
Perhaps neither of them is entirely false. But both began to seem insufficient to describe what I have experienced throughout my entire career as an artist, researcher, and mentor of creative processes. It was from this suspicion that this reflection truly began to take shape.
Two Images of Creation
So far, I have suggested—with considerable caution—that perhaps the current unease surrounding artificial intelligence does not stem solely from the technology itself. My impression is that it also reveals certain, very ancient ways of conceiving of creation.
I write “my impression” because I do not yet know exactly how far this hypothesis might take us. I do not intend to prove it, much less construct a theory of creativity. What interests me is something more modest: provisionally organizing some observations I have been making and placing them in dialogue with authors I have encountered along the way.
My studies in Goethean phenomenology may explain this disposition. Among the many contributions I encountered along the way, one in particular has become a constant reference point for my approach to research: what Goethe called “delicate empiricism.”
I understand this expression less as a closed method than as a way of approaching phenomena. Rather than rushing to explanations, it invites us to remain with what we observe long enough for the phenomenon itself to gradually transform the observer’s interpretations and questions.
I recognize in this perspective something very close to the way I usually learn. As I venture through the territories of practice, I observe with rigorous method, read relatively freely, bring together authors who may never have imagined engaging in dialogue with one another, and seek to let them converse first with experience, before bringing them into dialogue with one another. I do not seek to construct a theoretical system. I seek to refine my questions.
It is in this spirit that I propose observing the two images that seem to recur in the current debate on creation and artificial intelligence. I do not claim that they are the only ones, nor necessarily the most important ones. They are simply the ones that, at this moment, seem to help us understand why certain creative processes are so quickly dismissed.
Where do we imagine creation takes place?
When we think of an artist creating, we often imagine an intimate, almost invisible moment in which the work is born. Before the written word, the melody, the drawing, or the gesture, there would be an idea conceived within the creator. The realization of the work would come later, giving form to something that, in its essence, was already present.
This image is not entirely false. All creation arises from inspiration, from a unique story, from a sensibility, from a repertoire, and from a particular way of perceiving the world. There is a dimension of experience that cannot simply be transferred from one person to another.
What interests me is whether this inner dimension is sufficient to understand the creative process.
Some of my independent reading has made this question more complex for me.
Vygotsky, for example, showed that language and thought are not related merely as content and vehicle. Language participates in the very formation of thought. I recognize something of this dynamic in my own experience: often, I do not think first and then formulate my thoughts. I understand as I seek to formulate them.
Donald Schön, observing professionals in complex situations, described something similar from a different perspective. Rather than simply applying solutions to predefined problems, these professionals often discover the problem itself as they act upon it. The situation responds, resists, produces consequences, and alters their initial understanding.
Michael Polanyi, in asserting that we know more than we can say, drew attention to another dimension of this experience. An important part of knowledge remains embodied in practice and cannot be entirely reduced to what we are able to consciously articulate.
These authors are not saying the same thing. Nor are they addressing artificial intelligence. Still, each of them seems to shift slightly the image of a creation that is entirely conceived before encountering its mediations.
I do not take these approaches as proofs. I see them as companions along the journey.
Perhaps an idea is not simply ready before it is written down. Perhaps a choreography is not entirely conceived before it is rehearsed. Perhaps a film’s screenplay continues to be rewritten by the images and the editing. Perhaps a significant part of creation continues to take place in relation to language, the body, materials, instruments, and the situations through which it seeks to take shape.
This possibility does not eliminate the creator’s inner world. It merely brings it out of isolation.
What do we recognize as creative work?
The second image seems less abstract. It arises whenever we try to identify exactly where the author’s work lies.
We tend to recognize it more easily in what can be directly observed: the writer writes, the painter paints, the musician plays, the sculptor sculpts. The act of execution provides visible evidence of authorship.
Perhaps this is why the advent of artificial intelligence causes such discomfort. When part of the materialization of the work is carried out by a system, the image of creation as a direct process leads almost immediately to the conclusion that an equivalent part of the creation itself has also disappeared.
But this equivalence does not seem so simple to me. The very history of the arts has always involved complex forms of collaboration and mediation. Directors do not operate every camera in their films. Architects do not build the buildings they design with their own hands. Composers do not play every instrument in an orchestra. Choreographers do not dance every role in a company. Editors, performers, assistants, technicians, artisans, producers, and countless other agents participate in the material realization of works whose authorship we nevertheless continue to recognize.
These examples are not intended to equate these forms of collaboration with the use of artificial intelligence. They merely show that authorship and direct execution by the author themselves do not necessarily coincide.
This does not mean that any form of direction is sufficient to constitute authorship. Nor does it mean that performance and technical mastery have lost their importance. It simply means that, in many artistic practices, we have already learned to recognize as creative activities those that do not coincide with the material production of each element of the work. We recognize conception. Direction. Choice. Articulation. The ability to integrate distinct contributions into a meaningful whole.
My own practice has not strayed from material performance. I still write the lyrics myself. The harmonies continue to take shape on the acoustic guitar, in collaboration with my brother, Carlos. The melodies emerge from improvisations on the keyboard. The arrangements are conceived by humming each vocal part, experimenting with timbres, layers, and relationships before any final production. The topline is performed by me to shape the expressive aspects of each vocal interpretation.
None of this has disappeared with artificial intelligence. These stages continue to form an essential part of the creative process. What has begun to change is my perception of the place they occupy within that process.
The more I observe my own work, the less I can pinpoint the creative process solely to those moments of completion. Before the lyrics, the melody, or the arrangement, there is a universe that needs to be built, a question that slowly takes shape, a process of exploration that maps out a field of possibilities, and a direction that gradually becomes recognizable.
Then, when I draw on generative tools to produce each track, the work isn’t limited to simply accepting what the system offers. There are choices, rejections, reorganizations, and repeated returns to the body of work as a whole to verify whether each decision continues to strengthen its coherence.
Between one stage and the next, there is an activity that I can hardly describe as mere execution: perceiving the work’s becoming.
Perhaps it is precisely there that my observation begins to reveal the limits of these two images: creation as something conceived entirely within the individual, and creative work identified above all with the material execution of the work. Not because they are wrong. But because they seem insufficient to describe everything that actually happens during creation.
I still don’t know what consequences this suspicion might have.
What really happens when I create?
To try to answer this, I need to resist the temptation to start with an explanation. If delicate empiricism has taught me anything, it is precisely to be wary of explanations that come before observation. That’s why I return to the work. Not to arguments. Not to theories. I return to the experiment. To observation. To reflection. To the work.
When I try to pinpoint the beginning of a song, I find it increasingly difficult to say where it starts. Certainly not with the first word of the lyrics. Nor with the first note of a melody. Much less with the first dialogue with an artificial intelligence.
Sometimes I get the impression that it begins many years earlier. In themes that run through my own life story and remain present in my body’s memory. In the questions that keep resurfacing throughout my life. In the movies that left a mark on me. In the books I read without imagining that they would one day inspire a song. In the artists who taught me new ways of perceiving rhythm, silence, and words. In the conversations I engage in as a mentor of creative processes. In the research I conduct on creativity, collaboration, and the economics of culture. And, why not, also in questions that arise in the intimacy of a psychotherapy session and continue to work silently long after the conversation ends.
None of this is a song yet. Nor does it, on its own, encapsulate the universe of the artist-personas I bring into the world. It is a field of experience. A living repertoire of relationships that continually reorganizes itself, even when I’m not composing.
When a song begins to take shape, it does not emerge from this field as a finished object. It emerges slowly. Sometimes it begins with an atmosphere. Sometimes with a question. With an image. With a character or a situation that character might experience. Sometimes simply with the sensation—still very vague—that something is seeking to manifest itself as form.
For a while, I thought this was just a preparatory stage. As if the actual creation began later, when I sat down to write, compose, or produce.
Today, I’m not so sure anymore. I’m beginning to suspect that this web of relationships is already part of the creative process itself. When I finally write lyrics, they are neither a starting point nor an endpoint. The same is true of the melody, the harmony, the arrangement, and every other stage of music production. All of them remain an essential part of this living flow.
What began to catch my attention, however, was something else: none of these manifestations merely expresses a preconceived idea. Each one reorganizes what I had previously believed I was searching for.
A small adjustment to the lyrics can alter the texture of the phonemes during vocal performance, change the pulse of the meter, and suggest a different melodic line. A change in harmony transforms the way I come to perceive the same phrase. A new arrangement reveals expressive tensions that remained invisible while the song existed only on the acoustic guitar. Each manifestation reorganizes thought itself, while thought reorganizes all relationships.
It is through this dynamic that I seek to understand how I incorporate artificial intelligence into my work. Interestingly, it does not produce the rupture that so often appears in public debate. On the contrary, it makes this movement even more visible.
As I look at the chats, I realize that I’m not chatting exactly to get immediate answers, but to gain a better understanding of the questions.
Often, a response generated by the system disappears just a few minutes later. Even so, it serves an important purpose. It makes explicit a possibility that until then had remained only an intuition. By rejecting it, I gain a better understanding of what I’m looking for. By modifying it, I discover connections I hadn’t yet noticed. By pushing in a certain direction, I see more clearly what truly organizes the whole.
The work is no longer merely about producing content. Each response, even when it does not remain, also serves to make the work’s emerging identity more perceptible.
This does not happen only in the context of artificial intelligence. Perhaps it has always been part of the entire creative process. The difference is that, in the face of a mediation experienced as a continuous dialogue, this work has become impossible to ignore.
In any case, this observation once again shifts the question that has been guiding this essay. If the creator’s work may not disappear when a new form of mediation enters the scene, but rather becomes more visible, then we are ultimately compelled to ask what kind of competence we are referring to when we speak of authorship.
The Human Attitude
To try to answer this question, I had to look at what I actually do during the creative process. I am not referring to lyrics, melodies, arrangements, scripts, sketches, methodologies, mind maps, drawings… These aspects remain an essential part of my creative practice. My attention turned to a less obvious kind of work, one that permeates these materializations without being exhausted by any of them.
The first answer I found was surprisingly simple: constructing problems.
For years, I thought of creation primarily as the materialization of a work. Today it seems to me that an important part of creative work happens even before any product exists. It begins when a question quietly begins to reorganize what I observe, read, experience, and imagine. It is in this process that a problem begins to take shape.
Not every question remains alive. Some disappear quickly. Others linger for months. Some span years and continue to generate new connections. Little by little, I began to realize that an important part of my work consists precisely in recognizing which of them remain alive enough to deserve my company.
When one of these questions finally begins to take shape, another equally delicate task arises: maintaining a direction.
The creative process continually generates possibilities. A conversation suggests an image. A book reorganizes a memory. A response produced by a generative system brings together connections that I would hardly have made on my own. Little by little, I came to realize that my challenge lay not so much in bringing possibilities to light, but in preventing them from disrupting the work’s identity.
Rejecting possibilities has never been anything new in my creative process. What I began to perceive differently was what guided these rejections. A work does not grow solely through what it incorporates. It also gradually allows one to discern its own, still-emerging coherence, in light of which certain possibilities reveal that they do not belong to it. Abandoning ideas I like. Rejecting elegant solutions. Letting go of promising paths. Not because they lack meaning, but because they make sense in another work. The more I observe my own process, the more I suspect that the maturation of a creation depends less on the quantity of elements I incorporate than on the quality of the rejections I make throughout its formation.
There are moments when I still cannot clearly explain where a song is inviting me. Even so, I’m beginning to recognize what it is not leading toward. This seemingly small difference has transformed the way I understand creation. I’ve come to realize that an important part of my work consists precisely in preserving this still-emerging identity, even before I’m able to describe it precisely.
It was based on this observation that another activity began to emerge. It wasn’t enough to pose problems, maintain directions, and abandon paths. It was necessary to continually monitor the coherence of the relationships that emerged throughout the process. As each decision reorganized the context in which all the others came to be evaluated, I gradually stopped perceiving creation as a succession of independent choices and began to recognize it as a field of relationships in constant reorganization.
For this to be possible, another practice began to reveal itself: distinguishing relationships. Between a biographical concern and a song. Between a reading and an aesthetic choice. Between a conversation that continues to work silently and an idea that emerges much later. Relationships that bring together seemingly disconnected experiences and come to participate in the formation of the work.
These relationships do not arise by mere decision. I can create the conditions for them to happen, but I cannot determine in advance what will emerge. It is necessary to distinguish them as they take shape. Perhaps this capacity for distinction constitutes one of the most profound activities of creation.
Gradually, I began to realize that all these activities converged toward an even broader one: integrating.
To integrate my biographical memory—the memory inscribed in the body—with my readings, the artists, the films, the conversations, the investigations, and the experiences I’ve had in dance, writing, phenomenology, and music. And now, generative systems as well. None of these elements directly produces a work. But they all continually reorganize the field from which it may emerge.
Perhaps this broader understanding of my own work was the main discovery that emerged from my engagement with artificial intelligence. I did not come to experience my creativity as greater or lesser. I came to be able to observe, with greater breadth and clarity, the work I was already doing.
My perspective on the role that dialogue with generative systems played in the creative process also began to change. I came to realize that I turned to it far less to obtain answers than to create conditions in which unexpected encounters could occur.
As I continued to observe this process, an old reading of Humberto Maturana took on new meaning for me. I was already familiar with those ideas long before the advent of artificial intelligence. But it was through my engagement with generative systems that I began to perceive a connection that had previously eluded me. I did not find in Maturana a theory to explain this experience. It was the experience itself that reshaped the way I understood that text.
When describing living systems, Maturana observes that a disturbance does not determine the change that will occur in the system. The same song, for example, can make one person smile and another cry. It can even affect the same person in different ways at different times in their life. The song triggers something, but it does not determine what will happen. For Maturana, it is the structure of the system itself—which also includes its history—that determines the change possible at that moment.
As I revisited this idea, I realized that perhaps it offered a language to describe something I had been observing in my own creative process. Artificial intelligence does not produce the work, nor does it determine what an idea might become. It vastly expands the range of disturbances to which my creative process can respond.
But responding does not mean obeying.
A suggestion only persists when it finds resonance within a universe that has already been acquiring its own coherence throughout the process. Others disappear immediately. Many are discarded. Some completely reorganize a direction that seemed established. The tool can trigger this reorganization, but it does not determine what it will become. What reorganizes in this encounter is this universe—and, with it, myself.
Gradually, I began to recognize in this movement what I would today call an architecture of chance.
Chance lies in what I cannot anticipate. What has changed is that I no longer depend solely on the disruptions that chance encounters in everyday life can produce. I can deliberately create conditions that expand the range of disruptions to which my creative process can respond.
Looking back on my work, I began to recognize this same movement in practices that predate artificial intelligence by far. For years, I have been creating and leading creative collaboration groups in which part of my work consists precisely of bringing different people, experiences, and repertoires into relation with one another, without being able to anticipate what might emerge from these encounters. I also do this when I bring together authors who have never engaged in dialogue with one another, apply the logic of dance to cinema, or allow a memory, a film, and a philosophical concern to converge within a single song.
Artificial intelligence did not pioneer this approach. It has simply become part of this architecture of chance, creating more opportunities for disruptions to trigger new reorganizations in my creative process—not as an author, nor as a substitute for imagination, but as yet another interlocutor within a process that remains open to the unexpected.
The more I observe what happens in my own creative process, the less I can identify with positions that present artificial intelligence as an almost unrestricted expansion of creative possibilities or as a threat to what is uniquely human about it. Defending or opposing artificial intelligence seems to demand an answer before we have fully understood the question.
It is at this point that I return to Haraway. The idea of “staying with the trouble,” which had helped me suspend polarization at the beginning of this reflection, now takes on a different meaning. It is no longer merely a matter of resisting the rush to celebrate or condemn a technology, but of remaining attuned to the complexity of the relationships it sets in motion.
Staying with the problem, then, comes to mean for me sustaining this space of observation. Accompanying what is transforming while we are still learning to perceive it. Not to indefinitely postpone taking a position, but to build more responsible ways of inhabiting a transformation of which we are already a part.
Having reached this point, I realize that the questions that have emerged throughout this essay no longer fit entirely within the boundaries of my own creative process. As I sought to stay with them, they transformed and gave rise to others, until they reached the broader field of the relationships we are learning to build with the technologies we create.
The question, then, is no longer simply whether artificial intelligence creates, replaces, or threatens human creativity. It also comes to involve our responsibility for the way we participate in these transformations while they are still unfolding.
If creativity is an expression of life itself, what attitude allows us to remain guided by life in our relationship with technology? But this is no longer a question solely about artificial intelligence. Nor is it about art. It is a question about any form of mediation we are capable of inventing.
All technology expands possibilities, but it also carries both the best and the worst of the culture from which it emerges. No technology decides, on its own, what we will do with what it makes possible. The responsibility for these choices remains with us.
Perhaps preserving humanity in creation has never meant protecting art from technology. Perhaps it has meant preserving, in our relationship with any technology, an attitude that is sufficiently alive to continue producing meaning and cultivating curiosity, discernment, openness, responsibility, and care.
An artist’s attitude.
For me, it is no longer a problem to be solved, but rather a willingness to keep observing. To keep learning. To keep exploring even as I create. And to keep taking responsibility for the mediations I choose to incorporate into my own way of creating.
Perhaps this, after all, is the attitude I continue to seek to cultivate—not only in the face of artificial intelligence, but in the face of life itself.
Bibliographic References
HARAWAY, Donna J. Ficar com o problema: fazer parentes no Chthuluceno. Tradução de Ana Luiza Braga. São Paulo: n-1 edições, 2023.
HOLDREGE, Craig. Pensamento vivo: as plantas como mestras. Tradução de Fernanda Rocha Vidal. Bambual Editora.
MATURANA, Humberto R.; VARELA, Francisco J. A árvore do conhecimento: as bases biológicas da compreensão humana. São Paulo: Palas Athena.
POLANYI, Michael. A dimensão tácita. Tradução de Eduardo Beira. Portugal: Inovatec, 2010.
SCHÖN, Donald A. Educando o profissional reflexivo: um novo design para o ensino e a aprendizagem. Porto Alegre: Artmed, 2000.
VIGOTSKI, Lev S. A construção do pensamento e da linguagem. 2. ed. São Paulo: WMF Martins Fontes, 2009.