What watching "Data" paint taught me about being human

Above: ChatGPT's interpretation of Data painting in his quarters

 

I remember watching Star Trek: The Next Generation and feeling deeply moved by the character Data—the android who longed to understand humanity. On more than one episode, he earnestly tried to learn how to paint aboard the starship. He was curious, methodical… and despite his limitations, you couldn’t help but empathize with his quiet quest to feel, to create, to be more than programmed.

That stayed with me.

Because unlike today’s AI tools—like ChatGPT and image generators—Data wasn’t trying to outperform humans.
He was trying to understand what it meant to be one.
And we, as viewers, rooted for him.

I should probably confess… I’m a sci-fi nut.
I love imagining what’s possible—new worlds, new tech, and yes, even sentient androids trying to paint on a starship. There’s a part of me that’s genuinely fascinated by AI and what it can do. The idea of machines helping us solve real problems or imagine new futures? That’s exciting.

(Though I’d be lying if I said the Terminator didn’t freak me out just a little.)

But here’s the thing—while I’m all for innovation, I also think it’s worth pausing to ask: what can’t AI do? What shouldn’t it replace?

Because when it comes to art, there’s something essential it just can’t touch.

Now, as I watch algorithms generate "art" in seconds, I don’t feel awe.
I feel… hollow.
Maybe you do too.

It makes you wonder: What is art, if not the reflection of a life truly lived?

AI is quietly powering our lives

The truth is, AI is already woven into much of the world we move through.
It’s helping doctors catch illnesses earlier.
It’s guiding search and rescue teams in disaster zones.
It’s predicting wildfires, optimizing crops, and mapping ecosystems before they disappear.

Most of the time, it’s not the headline-grabbing deepfakes or staged images we hear about.
It’s quiet work, behind the scenes, solving human problems—often ones we didn’t know how to solve ourselves.

And that’s extraordinary!

But when it comes to art—to the things we create to make sense of beauty, of grief, of wonder—that’s a different question.

And maybe a different kind of miracle.

Art isn't just what you see. It's what you carry.

A machine can generate an image.
But it can’t mourn.

It’s never stood, breathless, in front of a sunken ship, heavy with the weight of lost time.
It’s never known the ache of loss—or the even greater pull to return to the places where wonder still lives.

A machine can produce beauty.
But it cannot bear witness.

That’s something only we can do.
And maybe that’s what real art is—a witness to what it means to be alive.

Why human stories stay with us

The reason we are drawn to human-made art isn’t just because it’s skillful or striking.
It’s because somewhere inside it, we recognize ourselves.

It’s the feeling that someone else has touched something we’ve felt but never been able to name.
It’s the reminder that, despite the speed and noise of the world, there are still quiet moments worth holding onto.

And that kind of connection?
You can’t automate it.

What you choose matters

If you’re a collector, a supporter, or simply someone moved by a painting—you are choosing more than decoration.

You’re choosing to keep something precious alive:
The slow work.
The witnessing.
The stubborn insistence that human presence matters.

In an age where almost anything can be generated, what we choose to keep—to honour, to surround ourselves with—says everything about who we are.

Maybe that’s the real question AI can’t answer:

What is worth remembering?

And maybe that's why I paint the underwater world the way I do.
Each piece is a way of remembering—not just the colours or the places, but the wonder I felt when I was there.
Because some moments are too alive to leave behind.
And maybe that's what real art has always been: a way of carrying memory forward, one story at a time.