Holy Week is a time of reflection.
For many, it’s a pause in the year to sit with questions that don’t have easy answers–to think about responsibility, conscience, and the way we treat others. In today’s world, where generative AI is reshaping the creative landscape, Holy Week invites us to look not just at what we can do–but what we should do about it.
During this time, we are reminded that progress without reflection can come at a cost–a cost that is often carried by those people whose work, voices, and stories are quietly borrowed in the name of possibility.
With just a few prompts, AI can now generate poems in the voice of your favorite author, compose songs in the style of a specific band, or create images that echo iconic works of art. These tools mix existing styles and influences at a scale and speed we’ve never seen before. To the users, this feels like innovation. But to most of the artists, this feels like quiet theft.
It flattens years of creative labor into 10-second prompts.
Art has always evolved through imitation. That’s why we consider making art as a political thing because it stands on what came before and questions what comes after. Writers are shaped by the books they read. Chefs tweak recipes passed down through generations. Fanfiction thrives on inspiration from beloved novels, often created by fans out of admiration. Entire music genres have been born from borrowing–jazz, riffs, remixes, and other poetic forms passed down from one generation to the next. So why does AI mimicry feel unethical?
Maybe because meals, music, and fanfic are rooted in human interaction. They’re often made by people with deep respect for what came before. There’s a sense of community, of continuity. We know that no one ‘owns’ adobo, yet the way our lola makes it, feels sacred. We may write fanfiction for free, but we do it because we love the source material–and we want to stay in that world a little longer.
AI, on the other hand, lacks that emotional tether. It doesn’t admire the source– it calculates it. It doesn’t participate in tradition–it simulates it. When AI generates an image in the style of a Japanese animator or a poem that mimics a late author’s voice, it can feel like it’s skipping the part where the human heart wrestles with influence. What once came from lived experiences becomes a preset in a dropdown menu, stripped of nuance and culture.
For artists, when their styles are scraped, remixed, and rebranded by AI systems without consent or credit, it can feel like a new kind of erasure–one that is sanitized and automated. And it would be impossible to trace who really “owns” it.
“Who created that image?”
“Oh, I just used AI.”
Get it?
The People Behind the Prompts
Artists are more than the sum of their brushstrokes, words, or melodies. They carry stories, struggles, and cultural memory in their work. When AI systems scrape their content without consent, when style becomes just another prompt, it can feel like the person behind the art is being erased.
Some artists say they aren’t afraid of technology–they are afraid of invisibility.
Ethical use of AI asks us to weigh not just what is possible, but what is respectful. It calls for awareness of the emotional and cultural labor that goes into creative work.
So how do we move forward from here?
By building and using AI with intention. That means being transparent about training data. Giving credit where it’s due. Asking for consent whenever it’s possible. And above all, listening to the voices of the artists–especially those from marginalized or underrepresented communities–when they say, “This doesn’t feel right.”
AI can be a powerful tool. But like any tool, it reflects the hands that wield it.
As we emerge from Holy Week, a season rooted in reflection, humility, and renewal, perhaps the most radical thing we can do with new technology is to use it with compassion.
The future of creativity doesn’t need to be a zero-sum game–but if we forget the people behind the work, we risk building a world where art exists, but artists do not.
