On the left: my lovingly hand-drawn creations.
On the right: the dastardly machine, ChatGPT, doing its best Bond-villain impression with a paintbrush.
I’ll admit it—I get a kick out of seeing what the machine does with my drawings. My working theory: art is supposed to be fun. If I’m laughing while I poke the AI into weird corners, I’m winning. I’ve even stopped asking for “masterpieces” and started asking for “gems.” The results get brighter, stranger, and less like a Rembrandt that’s been through a photocopier.
Here’s the funny part: the machine doesn’t even use the full color space. It’ll leave parts of the curve untouched—like it’s saving the spectrum for later. So I swoop in, color-correct, and stretch it until it sings. Maybe one day AI will do that too, but I’m not holding my breath.
And yes—this whole thing has cost me a few “friends.” Apparently using AI makes you a hack, a fascist, or both. Which is wild. If someone’s art process ends a friendship, that friendship was already on life support.
Anyway, the villain’s lair is open. Comments welcome.
