#capitalism #ai #art #labor #microfiction
I'm booking our tickets to Comic-Con. I tap through the ancient web form, maneuvering past the cumbersome AI-generated takeover promoting a new prestige TV show.
The AIs are getting pretty good these days, and seem to have moved beyond the glassy-eyed doll faces characteristic of the Stable Diffusion era. Still, the ads are obnoxious and I can't wait to submit the form and get off of this website.
There was a time when I felt cozy in this wasteland that is the web. We made "content" here, and posted it where it was free for all to see. We made "web comics." Wild.
A few months pass and I'm circuiting the convention hall. It is a brightly lit maze, festooned with endless AI-generated promotions for Marvel supers and yesteryear reboots. The cast of Friends is back, youthful as ever, and apparently we will be getting at least three more seasons of the show. I round a corner and..
Here. Yes, here. This whole row was once filled with tables showcasing prints and original works of art. Behind the tables: a spouse, a friend, or the artist in the flesh.
The artists here were remarkable in their day for their contributions to the pop culture that drew me to the convention. Despite their labor and their infamy among certain fandoms, they never seemed to feature in a legible place on the credit roll.