In defense of impractical expression

Digitally-mediated conveniences make it easier to eschew community; AI-generated content lacks the effort that defines creative work.

One of our neighbors owns the bar next door. I run into him late at night after work during one of his smoke breaks. I am usually exhausted by this time — he is too — but still, we chat about small things: I try to explain what “consulting” is, he talks about how stressed he is about the opening of his new bar. We do it for the love of the craft.

These conversations are few and far between. Most of the time, my schedule is frictionless; my habits, like those of most Americans, are built around convenience rather than touch points with people living around me. Here and there, a (usually older) stranger will ask me for directions, but largely, we use our smartphone GPS to get around, to order takeout, to entertain ourselves.

Maybe things shouldn’t be so easy. For one, we no longer rely on regular interaction with the people living around us for favors; as a result, we are rarely occupied impractically. For another, this “lifestyle creep” toward convenience has only been accelerated by the shadow of AI — in daily life and in work, but perhaps most controversially — how it is used to reproduce, replicate, and replace human-made art.

Impractical conversations

Traditional social contract theory suggests that individuals consent to surrender some freedoms and control in exchange for social benefits. But today, as we move to both A) paid and B) digitally mediated relationships, community-based trust shifts into something more convenient and something more detached.

Derek Thompson writes in The Atlantic about the tax of isolating ourselves downstream of everyday conveniences. While being phone-bound and home-bound has solidified our closest connections and even our outer ring of “tribe” through shared affinities, this shift has wreaked havoc on our middle ring — the “familiar, but not intimate” interactions with people physically around us that teach us tolerance. Thompson points to this erosion as a cause for increased political polarization, but it also belies a distinct interpersonal loss.

I am nostalgic for the human element. It is simultaneously stimulating and grounding to exchange pleasantries with a stranger, for example, to exchange acknowledgement for each other’s existence. More so, there is an unknown benefit from the experiences, insights, and opportunities from people you meet impractically. The typical collisions in my daily life are limited; rarely do I meet someone who knows how to arrange the right coverage for opening a cocktail bar in New York or who can list off all the concoctions on their holiday menu, someone with a lingering finger on the pulse of bar patronage.

Some of the most well-connected people I know are masters at eliciting and responding to impractical bids for connection, and with amusement, not duty — fulfill. In many ways, this form of effort is a practice in love for the craft.

Impractical artwork

“Love for the craft” approach, of course, embodies the ask of traditional creative disciplines. This parallel is particularly relevant when considering the push for AI-produced content being presented as artwork (recently, for example, Sam Altman boasted about a new OpenAI model that is “very good at creative writing”). Unexpectedly, LLM models seem to show a proficiency for all creative tasks — from a flood of AI-generated pictures and videos on social media to AI-written books listed on Amazon — there is undeniably a temptation to replace the arduous yet satisfying process that is artistic expression.

A common argument against the legitimacy of AI-produced artwork is the lack of innovation and originality; another is that the artist is simply not human. Taking a slightly different approach, Ted Chiang, renowned sci-fi writer, argues in The New Yorker that AI-produced art “treats us as less than what we are: creators and apprehenders of meaning.” Specifically, Chiang asserts that writing, and all other forms of creative expression, is a series of making choices, one after the other. Similar to striking up an unnecessary conversation, it is a practice that is pro-friction and anti-convenience — an impractical expression. Yet, outsourcing those choices destroys the core of expression.

We all put effort into relationships we value, hobbies we are passionate about, and creation we believe is worth it. Most people are inherently good at investing effort, even in a time where effort is easily bought out. Maybe, yes, laziness is at play. But I argue that convenience has gutted, not effort, but vulnerability.

There is a raw underbelly to investing time and intention into people, into creation, and it is terrifying to do so without guaranteed return. What if the interesting stranger responds curtly? What if the art you have so painstakingly created does not receive adoration?

The simple act of stepping outside your apartment, or of calling what you create “art”, braces the brush of perception from the rest of the world. Even if you overcome the inertia, impractical expression stings from the rub of social friction, a deeply vulnerable act. And maybe we invite the aches that come with a bit of strain, all for the love of the craft.