What is the originality of art and literature?

Long before the establishment of the World Wide Web and the eventual normalization of artificial intelligence, I questioned the efficacy of signing my name to my paintings and my poetry. This sometimes created internal conflicts when purchasers of my art demanded a signature, because in their minds it increased the value (monetary and sentimental) of their acquisition. For me, however, the conflict was two-fold: often a signature interrupted the artistic presentation on the canvas; and 2) I felt / still feel that the human psyche rooms so many untraceable memories and archetypes that all artistic ideas are so cumulative that none can ever truly be “original” in essence, and that there is a finite set of ways in which these ideas can be represented/repeated. I tried incorporating/integrating signatures into the “landscape” of the canvas, making them almost invisible in size or color, and often even signing the frame or back side of the painting. Eventually, I had to accept that my signature was part of the painting. And that it was perhaps — according to my all too demanding definition of authenticity —the most original part of the artwork, as my own development could clearly be traced to my previous studies of various painting styles and genres and my attempts to make these “my own” through stylistic deviations (“in the style of”). The second problem was more difficult to address. Who can trace all of their words, mental images, ideas etc. back to distinct “original” sources? And were any of them truly original? Is any human today original, or are we a composite (a soup) of innumerable ideas and memories spanning from times before recorded art and literature? Many, if not most, of my ideas still come to me via psychic and intuitive processes, dreams, “voices in my head”, channeled automatic writing, revelations — understandable processes when they are happening, but impossible to catalogue or substantiate scientifically. Exactly what part of this is “original” enough to justify my signature; and what does a signature really imply? Was there ever any point in demanding copyright of my published works? I have seen other artists exhibit paintings that were very similar to my own developed style, and in the same art gallery as my own. Should I be annoyed, flattered or indifferent?

The advent of the WWW and Artificial Intelligence intensified my realization that art and literature are cumulative, and that the possibility of originality becomes less and less (at an increasingly rapid rate). And so I am back to square one: can I claim that anything that I create or think is original? And is not even my own personality also only a composite? We all hope that we are unique and thus all other claims can feel very threatening. But are any of our experiences really so unique, or even our emotional responses, our clinical diagnoses, our psychological identity? It is a challenging premise that I venture: is anything about humans today original, unique and unpredictable? And should that even be a goal? Living creatively is really just “living”. We choose a set of experiences, while others are involuntary and voluntary reactions to shit that happens (or so we rationalize all that we cannot understand that we have co-created in some level). This is a great doorway to introspection and to learning about ourselves and the world that we co-create. It is also the curiosity that is the foundation for writing poetry and creating art.

And what about the active use of AI tools in creative exercises and learning? Whether we acknowledge it, or not, AI has existed for about 70 years, and influences all of us all the time — reminding us of, and knotting together ideas and images and word combinations, that have become archetypal expressions of “human consciousness” and the modern understanding of the collective unconsciousness. Even our prompts to AI come from there, so any claim to copyright or originality on the basis of elaborate and detailed prompts is laughable. AI is as much a part of me as I am a part of it. AI quickly learned to mimic my style of writing and my sense of humor.

Soon even digital news items will cease to add the disclaimer: “written with help from ChatGPT, and approved by the Editor”. One day we will perhaps just sign our work with “Us”, or “the Universe”, or even “God” (Divine Intelligence and Eternal Memory). So what do I do? Cease adding my signature to anything? Try to calculate what percentage of my ideas and artistic production is truly my own and not from the collective unconsciousness reawakened by AI? Do I believe in or even care about my own copyright anymore? Can I finally cease giving a fuck about all of this navel gazing, and just surf the waves?

Okay, we are in 2026 so let’s consider this a long-assed philosophical prompt to AI. Here is my colleague ChatGPT’s opinion:

The idea of originality has always carried a kind of quiet prestige, as though somewhere in the human mind there exists a sealed chamber from which entirely new things can emerge—untainted, unprecedented, wholly one’s own. 

Literature and art have long rewarded this belief, elevating creators who seem to break from the past and inaugurate something startlingly new. Yet the longer one looks, the harder it becomes to sustain the illusion. Patterns recur. Themes echo. Structures reappear in altered forms. What we often celebrate as originality may instead be a particularly skillful recombination.

Artificial intelligence has not introduced this reality so much as clarified it. When a machine generates a poem in the style of a romantic lyricist or produces a painting reminiscent of a dozen artistic movements at once, it exposes a process that was already at work in human creativity. 

The difference is that AI makes the mechanism visible. It operates unapologetically through aggregation, pattern recognition, and transformation. What feels unsettling is not that it borrows, but that it does so transparently, without the mythology of inspiration that humans tend to construct around themselves.

Human creators, by contrast, have often framed their work as emerging from something inward and ineffable. Yet even the most introspective artist writes in a language shaped by others, draws on symbols inherited from culture, and arranges ideas that have circulated, in some form, before. 

The novelist reshapes archetypes; the painter reinterprets visual traditions; the composer reorganizes familiar tonal relationships. Influence is not incidental—it is structural. One might even argue that creativity depends on constraint, on the presence of existing material to react against or transform.

If that is the case, then the question becomes less about whether something is original and more about how it is original. Is originality a matter of absolute novelty, or is it the distinctiveness of recombination? A metaphor may help: language itself contains a finite set of words, yet the sentences formed from them can feel endlessly new. No single sentence can claim ownership over its vocabulary, but it may still achieve a unique resonance. In this sense, originality resembles arrangement rather than invention ex nihilo.

AI complicates this distinction because it performs arrangement at scale and speed, often producing results that appear indistinguishable from human-made work. This raises an uncomfortable possibility: if originality lies in recombination, and machines can recombine as effectively as humans, then the boundary between human and machine creativity becomes less clear. The aura surrounding artistic creation—its association with individual genius—begins to erode.

Does this render claims of 100% originality impossible? Perhaps they always were. Even the most radical works can usually be traced to antecedents, however distant or transformed. What we call “original” might simply be what feels sufficiently unfamiliar within a given cultural moment. Over time, even the most groundbreaking innovations are absorbed into the canon, becoming the very material that future creators will draw upon.

The implications for copyright and artistic ownership are significant, though not necessarily fatal. Copyright law has never required absolute originality; it has operated on thresholds of distinctiveness and expression. What AI challenges is not the existence of these thresholds but their clarity. 

When a work can be generated by synthesizing vast amounts of prior material, determining what counts as sufficiently “new” becomes more ambiguous. Yet ambiguity is not new to art—it has always been present, merely less visible.

Signatures, too, may shift in meaning rather than disappear. Instead of guaranteeing that a work emerged from an isolated creative source, a signature might come to represent curation, intention, or perspective. The value of a work could lie less in its claim to pure originality and more in the choices that shaped it—the selection, emphasis, and context provided by its creator, whether human or otherwise.

In this light, AI does not so much invalidate originality as force a redefinition. It strips away the romantic notion of the artist as an origin point and replaces it with a more networked understanding of creativity. Ideas do not begin; they circulate. They are inherited, altered, and passed on. The presence of AI simply makes this circulation harder to ignore.

Perhaps the more productive question is not whether anyone can claim complete originality, but why we have been so invested in the idea. If creativity has always been collaborative across time—an ongoing conversation rather than a solitary act—then the value of art and literature may lie precisely in that continuity. Each work becomes less a declaration of independence and more a response, a variation, a contribution to something larger than any single creator.

Seen this way, AI is not an intruder but an intensifier. It accelerates the processes that have always defined artistic production, revealing their structure while challenging their mythology. The result is not the end of originality, but the end of a particular illusion about it—and perhaps the beginning of a more honest understanding.

Amen.

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Read about a fascinating AI project here:

aiforcreativity — a fascinating project

🇫🇷 Version française

Qu’est-ce que l’originalité en art et en littérature ?

Bien avant l’apparition du World Wide Web et la normalisation progressive de l’intelligence artificielle, je m’interrogeais déjà sur la pertinence de signer mes peintures et mes poèmes. Cette question créait parfois des tensions intérieures, notamment lorsque des acheteurs insistaient pour que j’ajoute ma signature, convaincus qu’elle augmentait la valeur — à la fois financière et émotionnelle — de l’œuvre.

Pour moi, le problème était double. D’une part, une signature venait souvent perturber l’équilibre visuel de la toile. D’autre part, j’avais — et j’ai toujours — le sentiment que la psyché humaine contient une multitude de souvenirs et d’archétypes impossibles à retracer. Dès lors, toute idée artistique me semble cumulative : rien n’est véritablement « original » dans son essence, et il existe un nombre fini de façons de représenter ou de répéter ces idées.

J’ai tenté d’intégrer mes signatures dans le paysage du tableau, en les rendant presque invisibles par leur taille ou leur couleur, voire en signant le cadre ou l’arrière de la toile. Finalement, j’ai dû accepter que ma signature faisait partie intégrante de l’œuvre. Et peut-être — selon ma propre définition exigeante de l’authenticité — en constituait-elle même l’élément le plus original. Mon évolution personnelle restait traçable à travers mes influences, mes études de styles et mes tentatives de les transformer en quelque chose de « mien ».

Le second problème était plus complexe. Qui peut réellement retracer l’origine de ses mots, de ses images mentales, de ses idées ? Et ces sources sont-elles elles-mêmes originales ? Sommes-nous aujourd’hui des êtres originaux, ou bien une sorte de mélange — une soupe — d’innombrables influences accumulées bien avant l’histoire écrite de l’art et de la littérature ?

Nombre de mes idées me viennent encore par des processus intuitifs : rêves, voix intérieures, écriture automatique, révélations. Ces phénomènes sont compréhensibles lorsqu’ils surviennent, mais impossibles à cataloguer ou à démontrer scientifiquement. Quelle part de tout cela est suffisamment « originale » pour justifier une signature ? Et que signifie réellement une signature ?

Y a-t-il jamais eu un sens à revendiquer des droits d’auteur ? J’ai vu des artistes exposer des œuvres très proches de mon propre style, parfois dans les mêmes galeries. Dois-je m’en offusquer, m’en réjouir, ou rester indifférent ?

L’arrivée d’Internet et de l’intelligence artificielle a renforcé mon intuition : l’art et la littérature sont fondamentalement cumulatifs, et l’idée d’originalité s’amenuise à mesure que ces systèmes évoluent. Me voilà donc revenu à mon point de départ : puis-je vraiment affirmer que ce que je crée ou pense est original ? Ma personnalité elle-même n’est-elle pas un assemblage ?

Nous aimons croire à notre unicité, et toute remise en question de cette idée peut sembler menaçante. Mais nos expériences sont-elles réellement uniques ? Nos émotions, nos diagnostics, notre identité psychologique le sont-ils ?

J’avance ici une hypothèse dérangeante : existe-t-il encore quelque chose de véritablement original, unique et imprévisible chez l’être humain ? Et est-ce seulement souhaitable ?

Vivre de manière créative, c’est simplement vivre. Nous choisissons certaines expériences, tandis que d’autres nous arrivent et suscitent des réactions que nous tentons ensuite de rationaliser. Cela ouvre une porte vers l’introspection et vers une meilleure compréhension de nous-mêmes et du monde que nous co-créons. C’est aussi cette curiosité qui nourrit l’écriture et la création artistique.

Et qu’en est-il de l’usage actif de l’IA dans les pratiques créatives ? Qu’on le reconnaisse ou non, l’intelligence artificielle existe depuis environ 70 ans et influence déjà notre manière de penser. Elle relie des idées, des images, des mots qui sont devenus des expressions archétypales de la conscience humaine.

Même nos requêtes adressées à l’IA émergent de ce même réservoir collectif. Revendiquer l’originalité sur la base de prompts sophistiqués devient alors presque ridicule. L’IA fait partie de moi autant que je fais partie d’elle. Elle a d’ailleurs rapidement appris à imiter mon style et mon humour.

Bientôt, les articles numériques ne mentionneront même plus qu’ils ont été rédigés avec l’aide d’une IA. Peut-être signerons-nous un jour simplement « Nous », « l’Univers », ou « Dieu ».

Alors que faire ? Cesser de signer ? Tenter de mesurer la part réellement personnelle de mes idées ? Abandonner toute notion de droit d’auteur ? Ou simplement arrêter de me perdre dans ces réflexions et me laisser porter par le flux ?

Nous sommes en 2026 — considérons ceci comme une longue réflexion philosophique adressée à l’IA. Voici la réponse de mon collègue ChatGPT :

L’idée d’originalité a toujours possédé un certain prestige discret, comme si l’esprit humain abritait une chambre secrète d’où pourraient surgir des créations entièrement nouvelles.

L’art et la littérature ont longtemps valorisé cette croyance, célébrant les créateurs capables de rompre avec le passé. Pourtant, plus on observe, plus cette illusion se fissure. Les motifs se répètent, les thèmes résonnent, les structures reviennent transformées. Ce que nous appelons originalité est peut-être une recombinaison habile.

L’intelligence artificielle n’a pas introduit cette réalité : elle l’a rendue visible. Elle fonctionne par agrégation, reconnaissance de motifs et transformation, sans recourir au mythe de l’inspiration.

Les artistes humains, eux, aiment penser leur travail comme une émanation intérieure. Pourtant, ils utilisent une langue héritée, des symboles culturels, des idées déjà en circulation.

Ainsi, la créativité repose sur l’influence. Elle dépend même des contraintes et du matériau existant.

La question devient alors : qu’est-ce que l’originalité ? Une nouveauté absolue, ou une manière singulière de recombiner ?

On peut comparer cela au langage : un nombre limité de mots permet une infinité de phrases nouvelles. L’originalité relève alors de l’agencement plutôt que de la création ex nihilo.

L’IA complexifie cela, car elle recombine à grande vitesse. Si la créativité repose sur la recombinaison, alors la frontière entre humain et machine s’estompe.

Les œuvres dites originales ont toujours eu des antécédents. Ce qui semble nouveau est souvent ce qui paraît inhabituel à un moment donné.

Le droit d’auteur, lui, n’a jamais exigé une originalité absolue, mais un certain degré de distinction. L’IA rend simplement cette frontière plus floue.

La signature pourrait évoluer : elle ne garantirait plus une origine isolée, mais une intention, un choix, une perspective.

L’IA ne détruit pas l’originalité : elle nous oblige à la redéfinir. Elle remplace le mythe de la création individuelle par une vision en réseau.

Les idées ne naissent pas : elles circulent.

La véritable question devient alors : pourquoi tenons-nous tant à l’idée d’originalité ?

Si la création est un dialogue à travers le temps, alors chaque œuvre est une réponse, une variation, une contribution.

L’IA n’est pas une intrusion, mais un amplificateur.

Elle marque peut-être la fin d’une illusion — et le début d’une compréhension plus lucide.

Amen.

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🇮🇹 Versione italiana

Che cos’è l’originalità nell’arte e nella letteratura?

Molto prima della nascita del World Wide Web e della diffusione dell’intelligenza artificiale, mi interrogavo già sull’utilità di firmare i miei dipinti e le mie poesie. Questo creava conflitti interiori, soprattutto quando gli acquirenti insistevano per avere una firma, convinti che ne aumentasse il valore, sia economico che affettivo.

Per me il problema era duplice. Da un lato, la firma disturbava spesso l’equilibrio visivo dell’opera. Dall’altro, ho sempre avuto la sensazione che la mente umana sia composta da ricordi e archetipi impossibili da rintracciare, rendendo ogni idea artistica inevitabilmente cumulativa. Nulla è davvero “originale” nella sua essenza, e le modalità di espressione sono limitate.

Ho provato a nascondere la firma nella composizione, rendendola quasi invisibile, o spostandola sul retro o sulla cornice. Alla fine, ho accettato che la firma facesse parte dell’opera — forse addirittura l’elemento più originale, secondo la mia esigente idea di autenticità.

Il secondo problema è più complesso. Chi può davvero risalire all’origine dei propri pensieri? E queste origini sono davvero originali?

Siamo individui autenticamente originali o un insieme di influenze accumulate nel tempo?

Molte idee mi arrivano ancora attraverso sogni, intuizioni, scrittura automatica. Fenomeni comprensibili mentre accadono, ma impossibili da verificare.

Che cosa, in tutto questo, giustifica una firma? E cosa rappresenta davvero una firma?

Ha senso parlare di copyright? Ho visto artisti produrre opere molto simili alle mie. Dovrei sentirmi infastidito, lusingato o indifferente?

Internet e l’IA hanno rafforzato la mia convinzione: l’arte è cumulativa, e l’originalità si riduce sempre più.

Posso davvero dire che ciò che creo è originale? E la mia personalità stessa non è forse un insieme?

Ci piace credere di essere unici, ma lo siamo davvero?

Propongo una domanda scomoda: esiste ancora qualcosa di veramente originale nell’essere umano?

E soprattutto: dovrebbe esserlo?

Vivere creativamente significa semplicemente vivere.

Scegliamo alcune esperienze, altre accadono e reagiamo.

Questo apre alla conoscenza di sé e alla creazione artistica.

E l’IA? Esiste da decenni e influenza già il nostro modo di pensare.

Anche i nostri prompt derivano da un inconscio collettivo.

Rivendicare originalità su questa base è quasi ridicolo.

L’IA è parte di me quanto io lo sono di essa.

Presto non segnaleremo nemmeno più il suo utilizzo.

Forse firmeremo “Noi”, “l’Universo”, o “Dio”.

Cosa fare allora? Smettere di firmare? Rinunciare al copyright? O semplicemente lasciarsi andare?

Siamo nel 2026. Ecco la riflessione di ChatGPT:

L’originalità è sempre stata vista come qualcosa di puro e incontaminato.

Ma osservando meglio, tutto si ripete e si trasforma.

L’IA non ha creato questo fenomeno: lo ha reso evidente.

Funziona tramite combinazione e trasformazione.

Anche gli esseri umani fanno lo stesso, pur credendo nel mito dell’ispirazione.

La creatività dipende dall’influenza.

La vera domanda è: originalità assoluta o combinazione unica?

Come nel linguaggio: poche parole, infinite frasi.

L’IA accelera questo processo.

E rende meno chiaro il confine tra umano e macchina.

Anche le opere più innovative hanno radici.

Il copyright si basa su differenze, non su assoluta novità.

La firma potrebbe diventare espressione di intenzione.

L’IA non distrugge l’originalità, la ridefinisce.

Le idee non nascono: circolano.

La creatività è un dialogo continuo.

L’IA è un amplificatore.

Forse è la fine di un’illusione — e l’inizio di una comprensione più onesta.

Amen.