They’ll Never Have Hummingbirds
Contemplating the scourge of ever-developing AI technology - and what the point of its persistent march forward even is, especially as a "creative" tool.
A hummingbird’s wings flap at a rate of roughly 80 times per second – an apt metaphor for the way my heart feels whenever I’m about to take a stage.
In those moments before an entrance, before the first steps in front of an audience (or a congregation, as is often the case in my performing life), before taking my spot on the risers or at the mic, before the first full breath expands my belly gently as I prepare to begin the next show… my blood is already singing, at a solid allegro, through my veins.
It’s a fluttering that Tilly Norwood could never relate to. She can’t relate to anything, actually.
The AI-generated performer is one of the more unfortunately audacious manifestations of this rapidly developing form of technology, which has been improving upon itself exponentially for the past several years – largely by learning from us. From our faces, our bodies, our voices… from our singing, our dancing, our painting… from our making. From our acts of creation, born of careful practice and shared externally, vulnerably. For her, these sacred moments are mere data points, fed into her by a human who forgot the point of being, absorbed with no appreciation for their specialness — on her part, or her maker’s.
I’m writing this while waiting for soundcheck before my latest performance with Broadway Inspirational Voices, a gospel choir comprised of professionals whose individual voices bring houses down, and whose collective might could move mountains (and habitually moves hearts). In the meantime, as I listen to (and sometimes join in) the chatter and giggles and sharing of fabric scissors and tweezers and steamers, I’m also keeping a smiling eye on the wonderfully active group chat of the New York Vocal Collective, another ensemble of absolute mega-talents of which I’m blessed to be a part. A group that just had its inaugural performance this past weekend, a rousing success that began with a grin-inducing, downright raucous welcome from our audience, and ended with all of us — on both sides of the performance — in full dance-party mode.
Tilly Norwood could never know the sense of love and joy such moments bring.
Nor could she ever know the nerves that come from such performing, or the feeling of warm interdependence that comes from doing so in groups. She could never know what it is to work on a portion of a song ahead of a session or show, or feel the moment when it truly locks — as she herself is programmed to be perfect at the outset. She could never know what it is to lay so much of oneself bare onstage when practices end and showtimes hit — as she has nothing to lay bare, nor insides where such hidden things might dwell. No heart to flutter, no belly to expand.
She could never know what it is to let creation fill the body to the point where the sweat flows from the pores, the hairs fall out of place, the shoes ache, a note goes accidentally sour in excitement but the subsequent ones mark a beautiful recovery. She could never know what it is to have a song run its way through your spirit, the stream of it rustling up memories and pains and ecstasy nestled within, bringing tears to the eyes and a sort of ache to the chest that won’t completely fade until hours after the risers have emptied and the lights have been shut down.
She could never know what it is to wait before the start of all of that, either, knowing that something of a miracle is about to occur. She doesn’t even have pores or tear ducts — or a spirit — from which anything could flow.
Yet she and her fabricated ilk will grow from it all the same. And, they will get opportunities all the same — ones that her human counterparts increasingly won’t.
Let’s be clear: The lion’s share of art’s power comes from the fallible humanity that is woven through it. Not just from a pristine, post-worthy finish, but from the work, the pride, the risk and, yes, the sometimes-imperfection that permeates it. The power comes from the love that makes it crackle with excited, hopeful energy – as the brilliant singer-songwriter Sara Bareilles once said, in what is one of my favorite and most oft-cited quotes: “Thank you, nervous; it means I care.”
Every time I sing, I care, because it’s a communal act. Yes, in the sense that I am a professional (and recreational) ensemble singer — but even when I’m flying solo, it’s all about how I’m relating to those in front of me. What I’m showing them of myself, and what it makes them think in turn. What it makes them feel. It’s work in the very best sense of the word, in that it’s effort and intention, fueled by thought and preparation — but then, at the same time, executed with utter abandon and open-heartedness. It’s about showing up after the preparation and giving in fully to the moment. And it’s one of the greatest loves of my life.
But the Tilly Norwoods… they love nothing. Not the work, and not the people the work is supposedly for. Not her, and not TaTa, another AI-generated performer who is the first “artist” to debut from producer Timbaland’s AI entertainment company, Stage Zero (which specializes in what he groan-inducingly calls “a-pop”).
What even is the point of creation without all of that overwhelming feeling? Of creative leaps taken devoid of nerves? Devoid of the caring, and the hummingbird wings? As younger people may phrase it: What are we doing here?
Well for one thing, we are sacrificing other critical facets of existence in service of this technology’s rampant, needless growth – precious, finite water supplies, for starters… the human rights to work and live with dignity, particularly for groups who already struggle for such rights… the literal learning process… even the writing of emails, or the navigation of conflicts with loved ones… all as people are increasingly beguiled into prioritizing the quick fixes AI offers, professionally and personally, over well-developed craft, and lessons learned through connection and experience.
What will we even sing and write and paint and create about if we flatten our internal fluttering wings, and everything else thrumming within, to stillness? When we dilute our passion and drive for the dull allure of “good enough?” What will become of our hearts, and at what rates will they beat, as we increasingly center “artists” without any hearts within them? How will we even make art with any meaning, any stakes, when nothing is urgent or risky or exposed? When boring perfection is guaranteed? When we can coast through the very act of creation?
And where will we even get to do so, if we shift toward AI “performers” simply because they can execute on keyboard-command, without human schedules to navigate or needs to meet in the process?
Amid TaTa’s early-June rollout, Timbaland said this about his new outing: “[TaTa] is not an avatar. She is not a character. TaTa is a living, learning, autonomous music artist built with AI. TaTa is the start of something bigger.”
Nothing about AI is “living.” Nothing about it is real. Nothing about it is creative.
THIS, pictured below — the stomping, the clapping… synchronized, yet not… the singing down, raw and open yet listening, as we find our sound together on this particular stage… bringing a show to life as an ensemble… this is creation.
Because living, and making, means a willingness to do hard things, and to be imperfect in our sharing, so long as we are being true, and giving from our fluttering hearts. That’s where the real, the great, comes from.
Yes! Thank you for this, Candice, it breaks my heart every time we make an “advancement” in technology that further misses the point of art and creation.