What happens to art when it’s stripped of economic value?

That’s the question in front of us. AI can now generate songs, paintings, and stories in seconds. Pop hits appear at the click of a button. Styles from Ghibli to Picasso can be imitated instantly.

So what does that do to the craft of an artist? What happens to the incentive structure for becoming one?

Art has never been just a profession. It has always been something deeper — connection, expression, something ineffable. But our system professionalized art because people need to eat, sleep, and survive. Money was the bridge.

The problem is: the work required to master art is massive. Conservatories exist for a reason. Hours every day. Thousands of performances. The same level of discipline as med school — but with no doctor’s salary at the end.

And yet people do it anyway. That alone tells you something about art.

Some see this as foolish. My venture capitalist friends scoff: why spend a lifetime perfecting a craft that barely feeds a family, when other jobs can generate millions?

But here’s the counterpoint: people still show up to concerts. They still need art. It enriches life in a way that isn’t reducible to “utility.”

The trouble is, our economic system demands that art justify itself as a tool. “Why put paintings on the wall? Because studies show it helps patients heal.” We contort art into a utility so it can fit into the system.

But art isn’t a utility. It supersedes usefulness.

Which brings us back to today. AI will replace most economic uses of art — jingles, logos, marketing copy. Companies will press a button, not hire a human. Supply will skyrocket. Prices will plummet. The market will move on.

So what do artists do?

My honest answer: keep creating.

Historically, high art was already subsidized — by aristocrats, wealthy families, or at least middle-class parents footing the bills through music school. Most artists who pursued craft deeply had their economic needs covered in some way.

I saw this firsthand. Friends had tuition and housing paid for. Some had inheritances waiting. Others scraped by sleeping on floors. I chose a parallel career in tech to fund my art. That tradeoff gave me flexibility: not full satisfaction, but enough to keep playing, recording, and growing.

Maybe AI just forces more of us into that dual path. Or maybe, as automation reduces the need for jobs, society will eventually create room for more people to pursue art without starving.

Either way, the economic value of digital art is headed downward. Live performance may hold out longer — you can’t automate the energy of a concert hall. But the digital objects themselves will blur, AI vs. human indistinguishable.

So the call is simple:

Make art because you have something to say.

Not because it will sell. Not because it will survive the market. But because it fulfills something in us that money never will.

That is what art is for.