Alexandra Marshall’s most recent book is “The Silence of Your Name: The Afterlife of a Suicide,” a memoir.
Regie Gibson now serves as the inaugural poet laureate of Massachusetts, but I first learned about him nearly 30 years ago when his title was US National Poetry Slam champion and he participated in a panel discussion called “The Music Connection from Homer to Hip-Hop.” Gibson characterized hip-hop moguls with a provocative statement that I’ll borrow in characterizing today’s AI masterminds.
During the panel, Gibson traced the development of hip-hop through its three initial phases: the graffiti spray-painted by adolescent trespassers into the train yards of the New York City subway system; the breakdancers encircled by pick-up crowds on city sidewalks; and the home party music where rappers rhymed their own stories and DJs mixed sound. He said the shift occurred when the hip-hop stars became entrepreneurs who “commodified” those noncommercial art forms by turning rhymes into recordings and clothing styles into merchandise. Referring to the open gunplay and misogynist violence they modeled, Gibson declared, “I don’t believe in making millionaires out of sociopaths who can rhyme.”
I recall his words because I think they have a contemporary application regarding the AI tycoons who systematically commodify the creativity of the arts and sciences without restraint or regard for the consequences. Because, similarly, I don’t believe in making billionaires out of sociopaths who can code.
Before code was turned from a noun into a verb, there was code, intrinsically defined by strict regulation as a code of law, a code of ethics. Speaking or writing in code can permit the concealment of meaning, one famous example being the Native American soldiers in World War II whose languages safely communicated military secrets. Virtues can also be codified as prohibitions, as in the Ten Commandments, the laws and ethics — the rules governing behavior — that are generally considered fundamental to civilization. The commodification of creativity violates the Eighth Commandment: You shall not steal.
Back in the day, thanks to the consistently updated reference guide “Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations,” we took for granted that quotes were by definition attributable. Sure, old-style politicians and dinner speakers everywhere routinely cut that corner by prefacing a line of poetry with “As the poet said …” — condensing all the uncredited poets into one — but, mostly, a conspicuous effort was made not to plagiarize. Those who do risk punishment for intellectual property theft, with legislation to define what that means. Nevertheless, in today’s world, flagrant disregard of commonly accepted behavior combines “Because I can!” with the “So, sue me!” attitude modeled by the White House in threats that seem both spontaneous and premeditated. And because the president immunizes others with his own immunity, the AI billionaire sociopaths are granted permission to steal.
A resounding warning was forcefully articulated by Pope Leo XIV in his recent encyclical, Magnifica Humanitas, a 42,300-word statement that can be summarized as a call to resist. It argues against “a technocratic and post-humanist mentality that tends to regard the human person as an object to be manipulated or a resource to be optimized, removing all safeguards against the unchecked pursuit of profit. What prevails is efficiency, rather than respect for freedom and human dignity.”
At the core of human identity is the unique power of creativity that resides in the human imagination. Imagine a writer devising a TV pilot featuring an actor whose image will be generated artificially, as will the plot of subsequent episodes, for the rest of the season. Do the writer and the actor own their “property” — their ideas, their very bodies — or not? While a book’s title cannot be copyrighted, its complete contents are protected. And while lawsuits have been generated, and won in some instances, how is the average person’s creativity defended? Consider a ballet dancer onstage compared to the movie version where those legs could be anybody’s. Listen to the improvisation of a jazz musician where spontaneity is the opposite of synthetic.
I know, I know, it’s quite amazing what AI can do, and I’ll congratulate Siri for finally being able to pronounce my address correctly, not as “a street,” but as A Street. And yet, even if humans are loading the arrow into the bow, aren’t we missing the bullseye? When a world-renowned mathematician was recently asked about a newsworthy AI achievement in his field, he responded, “Yes, but a disproof is different from a proof.”
In 1978, Norman Mailer was criticized for glamorizing those subway yard trespassers with “The Faith of Graffiti,” his lavishly illustrated book that frustrated the Transit Authority but which is now considered valuable documentation of the origins of hip-hop. Similarly, the breakdancing of part two of hip-hop has become established curriculum in elite conservatories, and today’s DJs are artists. We can still name the “sociopaths” that Regie Gibson condemned for commodifying hip-hop, even as hip-hop’s true originators remain anonymous.
The first generation of AI coders — those pioneers — are also anonymous, but we can name the self-promoting AI sociopaths because of their wealth. And because, when confronted with their shameless greed and thievery, they answer, “Because I can!” and “So, sue me!”