From Inspiration to Illusion
Does it really matter?
Lives in a van. Bimbles with a camera. Often pointing his pixel box at scruff. Has been known to run long distances. Would consider cake as a form of payment. Recovering.
I’ve just been catching up with the work of someone I’ve been following on Substack for a few months. I eagerly await the notification of a new post, and while I’m hungry for more than their regular weekly offering, I’m glad that the content they choose to share is deep, personal, and from the heart.
Serendipity.
Their words and subsequent struggles seem to match my own, and this wonderful discovery came at just the right time in my life. I feel for them when things go wrong, and am elated when they catch a break. They feel like a friend, such is my concern for their well being. Their story is my own personal binge-watch worthy series, and I happily spend time each day repeating previous episodes, while I wait for the next one to drop.
I’m invested. If they did tee-shirts I’d be first in line.
Last week I followed the breadcrumb trail from their Substack page, and have spent many hours since lost in the wonderful imagery on their personal website, which also contains more of their backstory - bS - before Substack. Their other socials too are worth a browse, although it would seem they have recently abandoned Instagram and have not posted on X for quite a while. Sound familiar ?
I feel like I know them. I’ve had the odd short conversation with them, telling them how much I appreciate not only their images, but also how open and honest they have been with their words. It’s helped immensely to know that I’m not the only one going through this. I get the odd short reply back, but that’s okay. They have quite a following, and I get enough from this mostly 1-way conversation, without needing every comment I leave on their work to be acknowledged.
Lately they have been sharing work of a location close to my heart, and their images and words have had a profound effect. You see, I too felt that way when I visited, pouring my heart and soul into the place, my own tears mixing with the earth. My vocal cry for help lost in the wind, carried out to sea. A cathartic experience. Painful and yet restorative. I long to return, to finish what I started. In the meantime, once again almost as if I had asked for it, their work has come around at just the right time. I will satisfy my longing for the place through their eyes. I whisper a thank-you to them in the darkness.
Recently, however, something felt a little off. A tiny inconsistency. A phrase that sounded eerily familiar. An image that, though impactful, felt almost… too polished. At first, I dismissed it, after all, revisiting familiar themes is part of the creative process. Creativity isn’t a straight line; we return to ideas, refine and reinterpret them through new experiences.
The more I engaged with their work, however, the more I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, like trying to recall a dream that fades as soon as you wake up. A déjà vu I couldn’t quite place.
Then there were the timestamps, posts appearing with clockwork precision, never missing a beat. No pauses, no off days, no moments of hesitation. Just perfectly crafted entries, week after week. At first, it was impressive, almost reassuring, especially the honesty and openness in their words. But then I wondered, could anyone maintain such unwavering depth without ever shifting in tone, without a single variation in rhythm or style? Each post felt perfectly calibrated, each thought seamlessly woven into the next. And yet, with every new piece, their words seemed to resonate even more, as if they were writing directly to me, anticipating my thoughts before I’d even had them.
I told myself I was overthinking it. But the feeling lingered, just beneath the surface.
Curiosity got the better of me. I started digging deeper, retracing the breadcrumb trail in reverse. Their website, supposedly filled with years of stories, existed in isolation —no external mentions, no past versions archived elsewhere. A reverse image search on one of their most moving photographs didn’t lead to a photographer’s portfolio, but to an AI image generator. And their blog posts, so raw, so deeply personal, suddenly felt almost too perfect, as if meticulously built for maximum emotional impact. Crafted to have leave a lasting impression on me.
And then it hit me. My god did it hit me. Right in the stomach. Bent over. Unable to catch my breath.
My new favourite artist wasn’t real.
This figure whose struggles had mirrored my own, whose words had been a lifeline, thrown overboard into a tumultuous ocean, wasn’t a person at all. They were an AI-generated creation, an entire persona spun from algorithms, trained on the experiences of countless real artists. Most likely part (most?) of the content had been crafted to specifically speak to me. Perhaps if I search for their work from a different account, their words and images would be different, crafted for someone else?
So, what does this all mean? Does it change everything? If AI can create work that moves us, challenges us, and makes us feel seen, does it matter whether there’s an actual human behind it? The work felt real, and its impact was undeniable. It inspired me. It challenged me. It moved me, and it did so for months on end.
But then, I found myself considering was there something essential missing? A spark, that only a human artist can bring? An imperfection perhaps, a flaw, a soul behind the work? Was this missing piece even necessary? Or, in a world where we’re so often drawn to the stories we create around art, does it matter at all if the artist is real or imagined? How often have we appreciated the art, but know little beyond the short social media bio about the artist. Do we even care?
Perhaps the most unsettling part of this experience is that I still don’t have the answer.
Do you?
Once again thanks so much for allowing me a few moments of your time. I trust you have enjoyed my words. A quick share amongst your own followers can help spread the word, and is very much appreciated.
As I’ve mentioned I will continue to provide 100% free content here on Substack, however if you would like to help support my journey then you can throw a few pennies into the tip jar below.
Once again, thanks so much and until next Sunday, take care and of course,
Happy Pixels !
A few other corners of the internet you may find me lurking
The X100 Diaries
My quarterly photography magazine
Our travel vlogs
Our travel Subsack
I can relate to the gut punch of this revelation. I would have also been a bit more accepting had it been labelled as AI, but then, would I have engaged it with any depth? Todd wrote “pretend to be a human creator” and I thought, doesn’t there have to be a human to create AI? I have a friend who uses AI on occasion to reply to emails. I keep saying, that’s not your voice and I feel cheated somehow. He counters that he’s just not that good at writing. I’d rather have his words, flaws and all. It’s the flaws, or lack of them — as you stated, that made you question. In the end, I prefer the flaws of us “humans”.
Very interesting story, and one that I’m afraid will continue to become more and more common as AI content generators take the place of human writers and artists. I’m strongly opposed to this kind of thing for a variety of reasons—perhaps most importantly because it’s dishonest to pretend to be a human creator while knowing that many people won’t be able to tell the difference. If the account were labeled “AI-generated,” I’d be okay with it, because then we as subscribers could choose whether or not we want to consume it. Personally, I wouldn’t, because I’m more interested in the real human connection that occurs when engaging with art created by an actual person.