“How can I make my work feel more original when AI art is everywhere?”
Fair concern, isn’t it? Lately, almost every digital artist I talk to asks some version of the same question, so I felt the need to sit down and write about how I, as a curator who isn’t necessarily against artificial intelligence, think you can make your work feel original when AI art Is everywhere.
Sometimes this question sounds technical — about style, tools, prompts. But most of the time, it’s emotional.
The artist is really asking:
What’s the point of my voice when machines can generate thousands of images in seconds?
How do I stay relevant when it’s all automated?
How do I know my work still matters?
This moment is forcing us to rethink what originality really means in the first place. And guess what? It was never about novelty to begin with.
First, let’s name the real problem
Do you think originality means “never-seen-before visuals”? Then why do I adore depictions of cats made by a thousand different artists?
Originality today isn’t about what your art looks like – it’s about where it comes from. Two people can use the same tools, same references, even similar aesthetics, and bring about completely different works.
AI can remix styles and put three legs in a person, but it will always come from the vast data set that lacks any kind of personality.
The difference is lived experience, emotional intention, worldview, obsession, memory, politics, humor, grief, joy. Your strength is that AI doesn’t have a childhood. It doesn’t have taste formed by accidents. It doesn’t have contradictions. You do!
What to ask instead
Does this sound like something only I would make?
Does this reflect something I actually care about — not just something trending?
Would I still want to make this if no one ever saw it?
Those questions lead to more personal images rather than pretty ones. And personal work ages better than polished work.
Practical ways artists are reclaiming originality
Here are patterns I see from artists who feel creatively steady right now without trying to out-speed machines.
1. They move toward specificity
Instead of:
“I want to make something futuristic / surreal / cyber / dreamy…”
They ask:
“I want to make something about my grandmother’s kitchen.”
“About moving cities and losing language.”
“About disability and digital bodies.”
“About grief, boredom, love, migration, breakups.”
The more specific the subject, the less replaceable the work feels.
AI is good at generic beauty, but humans are great at weird details!
2. They make work from lived experience
A lot of artists are shifting from: “What style should I try?” to: “What have I actually lived?”
Breakups. Immigration. Illness. Loneliness. Joy. Online identity. Burnout. Community. Obsession. Desire. Fear. Aging. Family. Politics. Faith.
These are all raw materials.
3. They stop trying to look “new” and start trying to sound honest
Honest work doesn’t always look impressive. Sometimes it looks quiet, awkward, unfinished, vulnerable. But it feels human, and that’s becoming increasingly rare online. And rarity is the new originality.
4. They build recognizable voices, not recognizable styles
Styles can be copied. Voices are harder.
Voice shows up in:
The kinds of subjects you return to
Your sense of humor
Your emotional temperature
Your pacing
Your contradictions
The questions you obsess over
Your audience connects to perspective.
5. They stop competing with machines and start collaborating with meaning
Some artists reject AI entirely. Some use it deeply. Most fall somewhere in between.
But the grounded ones stop asking: “Is AI replacing me?” and start asking: “What does AI allow me to explore that I couldn’t before?” And that’s smart!
They use AI as:
A sketching partner
A chaos generator
A way to surface unexpected forms
A conceptual tool rather than a production shortcut
Let’s talk about the grief no one names
There’s also something else under this question — and it deserves honesty.
A lot of artists are grieving:
The loss of effort-based value (“I worked so hard on this” no longer guarantees meaning)
The loss of skill-based hierarchy
The loss of certainty about what “counts” as art
That grief is real. And it deserves space.
If your sense of worth was tied to mastery, uniqueness, or technical labor, AI shakes that foundation. Of course it hurts. Of course it destabilizes.
But this moment doesn’t mean artists became irrelevant; it’s asking them to become more themselves. And honestly sometimes that’s harder than learning new tools, but way more durable.
Originality now = authorship + intention + context
Authorship: Who is speaking?
Intention: Why is this being made?
Context: What world does this emerge from?
So it’s no longer about visual novelty, technical difficulty, production time, or style uniqueness.
If you’re feeling stuck, try these exercises
Finish this sentence: “Only I could make work about…”
Write down five memories that still emotionally charge you — good or bad. Then create from there.
Make something intentionally unfashionable. Sometimes originality returns when you stop trying to impress anyone.
Ask: “Do these feel like they come from the same person?” That’s what I value the most as a curator if I’m featuring someone’s work in my exhibition. I value your voice!
Final thoughts
If AI can make anything, then your job as an artist isn’t to make everything — it’s to make something that only you would care enough to make. And when you do, share it with us so we can feature and celebrate your work on DAB!
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