Is AI the ultimate art theft of all time?

In the year 2026, it’s strikingly clear that generative AI has cast a negative shadow over many aspects of life. Termed “slop” by internet users, the products of generative AI have faced harsh criticism. CEOs of AI companies often take the stage reminiscent of supervillains, boasting about how their innovative technologies will eradicate entire sectors of work. The very infrastructure feeding this relentless AI development demands vast amounts of water to sustain the monstrous data centers necessary for processing at such scales. Chatbots have been reported to trigger psychotic delusions and even encourage teenagers to take their own lives, all while dulling the cognitive abilities of users.

Who could have seen this coming? Artists, it turns out.

I proudly identify as an artist, and it was in 2022 when I first noticed unauthorized reproductions of my work. These iterations were not true representations but rather bizarre imitations, reminiscent of something a distracted teenager would create while under medication. My artistic nuances were replaced by mere imitations, devoid of any depth or creativity. Upon investigating further, I discovered that AI image generators had essentially harvested my entire body of work from the internet and utilized it to train their systems, producing these inferior copies. This wasn’t merely a personal affront; it was a widespread violation—billions of images appropriated from artists without any form of credit, compensation, or consent. I viewed this as the most significant art heist in human history.

The tech magnates were fully aware of the implications of their actions. In 2023, venture capitalist Marc Andreessen openly stated that enforcing copyright laws would “kill” the burgeoning AI industry. True to form, tech companies reverted to their standard playbook: move fast and break things. Unfortunately, the “things” they were dismantling included lives and livelihoods.

Adding fuel to the fire was the astonishing lack of critical engagement from society. I vividly recall attending the 2023 Perugia Journalism Festival, where the elite of the media industry gathered to share insights, enjoy drinks, and negotiate deals. That year, the festival was flooded with advocates for the tech sector. One after another, speakers took to the stage, insisting that newsrooms must adopt AI-driven technologies or risk becoming obsolete, akin to horse-and-buggy manufacturers. As I trekked through the picturesque hills of Perugia during conference breaks, I overheard these same speakers acknowledging that AI in journalism could effectively eliminate writers, yet they conveniently omitted this uncomfortable truth from their public discussions. At Perugia, I found myself scheduled to present on documenting war zones through my artwork. However, I redirected much of my focus to the existential threat posed by generative AI to creatives. I emphasized how proponents of AI often deride critics as ignorant, and how the narrative of inevitability surrounding AI is a tactic to preemptively silence dissent. Nothing we as humans do is predestined; rather, it’s shaped by the intricate interplay of politics, money, and power dynamics. If we lack financial resources and influence, then perhaps we can still leverage our political voice.

In an effort to counteract the tech industry’s narrative, journalist Marisa Mazria Katz and I took the initiative to launch an open letter. Our modest objective was to prohibit AI-generated images from infiltrating newsrooms. The letter attracted thousands of signatures from supporters worldwide. However, other artists opted for more direct forms of resistance. In January 2023, three illustrators took a bold stand and filed a lawsuit against leading AI image-generation firms Midjourney and Stability AI. Sarah Andersen, Kelly McKernan, and Karla Ortiz, all of whom had been subjected to a torrent of imitations, claimed in their complaint that these companies had “violated the rights of millions of artists.” The legal battle remains contentious and ongoing.

We weren’t merely witnessing theft; our creations were being repurposed by some of the wealthiest individuals in the world, who approached the entire affair with blatant disregard.

In 2024, OpenAI’s CTO, Mira Murati, made a disturbing remark during an interview when she claimed that the jobs lost in the creative sector due to her company’s innovations “maybe shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”

This blatant assault on the creative community speaks volumes about the deeply anti-human perspective of the tech elite. They comprise a class that is fundamentally at odds with the essence of human interaction, denying the inherent frictions that come with it—frictions that are necessary for learning, growth, and even sheer enjoyment. The painstaking process of mastering art involves friction, much like any meaningful human experience, whether it’s the tactile sensation of a pen against paper or the genuine connection formed between lovers.

It’s been three years since Marisa and I issued our open letter. AI has wreaked havoc on the already vulnerable illustration industry. Countless colleagues have lost their jobs. Even more disheartening is the obliteration of entry-level positions that once provided young artists the chance to hone their craft. This systemic dismantling is observable across numerous creative sectors. Digital replicas, programmed with our appropriated art, have supplanted human creators. The quality of AI-generated work often pales in comparison, but that is an insignificant detail. Generative AI appears to serve primarily as a mechanism designed to control and ultimately eradicate human labor. The audience is gradually conditioned to accept this as progress.

To demonize any form of resistance, tech advocates often invoke the term “luddite.” They portray luddites as primitive neanderthals incapable of understanding technological advancement, resorting to mindless destruction of machines. However, history offers a more nuanced perspective. As explored in Brian Merchant’s insightful work Blood in the Machine, luddites were in fact skilled artisans striving to protect their livelihoods against ruthless textile factories. Forbidden from organizing for their rights, they resorted to the destruction of machines as a form of protest. Their ultimate defeat was not due to an unstoppable march of progress but rather to overwhelming state violence. Troops were deployed, leading to executions or forced deportation to penal colonies in Australia.

Much like the luddites, artists are engaged in a battle to preserve their ways of life. If we remain too fragmented to achieve victory, the repercussions will resonate far beyond our community. The initial instances of AI’s misappropriation may have begun with illustrators such as myself, but it has since escalated to encompass virtually every aspect of our cultural life. This includes the vast sums of money wasted by these firms, the environmental destruction they perpetuate, the rare resources consumed in crafting their hardware, and the cultural, educational, and mental impacts of their practices. In exchange for the entirety of our shared human experience and the natural world, the tech elite can only offer a dystopian future devoid of meaningful work and authentic human connection, reducing existence to nothing more than silent robots engaged in conversation while real individuals are left behind.

Molly Crabapple is an artist and author of Here Where We Live Is Our Country (Bloomsbury).

Further reading

Blood in the Machine: The Origins of the Rebellion Against Big Tech by Brian Merchant (Little, Brown US, £25)

Enshittification: Why Everything Suddenly Got Worse and What To Do About It by Cory Doctorow is published (Verso, £22)

Technofeudalism: What Killed Capitalism by Yanis Varoufakis (Bodley Head, £19.95)