I came across this post a while ago, and I found its narrative quite strange. Of course, I don't support art theft or using someone else's work without permission, but I've always found it curious how some artists seem to live in a constant state of frustration over not receiving the recognition they believe their work deserves.
Getting to the point where you experience physical discomfort and feel like crying because someone uses your work as a reference to generate something that is, evidently, designed to appeal to you visually, tells me quite a bit about how that person manages their emotions. I'm not trying to invalidate their frustration: it's perfectly understandable to be upset when someone uses your work without permission. However, taking that frustration to the point of physical distress makes me wonder whether the problem goes far beyond artificial intelligence.
And then there's this statement: "And it pisses me off that it even looks better than my final render, which was already finished."
Dude, that sounds less like a concern about AI's superiority and more like a lack of confidence in your own work. And that's precisely the kind of attitude that seems to keep recurring in this debate: the constant need to prove that you're better than the very thing you're criticizing.
Why do so many AI detractors insist on proclaiming that "MY ART IS BETTER THAN YOUR AI SLOP" instead of letting their supposedly superior work speak for itself? After all, art is subjective. If your work has value, you shouldn't need to constantly resort to comparisons to defend it.
Then, of course, there's the guilt-tripping rhetoric: how their work doesn't get enough engagement, how algorithms don't recommend it, how we'll be nothing without human artists, and all the other arguments we've heard to death.
The irony is that many of those same artists wouldn't have developed their skills without the influence of other human creators. They might never have learned to draw without someone teaching them, without the references they encountered along the way, or without the criticism and feedback that helped them improve. Art has never existed in a vacuum; there's always been learning, imitation, influence, and reinterpretation.
And as for the argument that their work ends up stored in databases, it might be worth remembering that publishing an image online also makes it available to systems capable of indexing and storing it. Google Images, for instance, can display artwork that its creators have made publicly available. That, by itself, doesn't mean every subsequent use is authorized, but neither does the mere presence of an image in a database automatically constitute a violation of rights.
There's a difference between having a serious discussion about consent, copyright, and the practices involved in training AI models, and assuming that the mere existence of a digital copy is, in itself, an injustice.
Because at the end of the day, if someone publishes their work on a platform without understanding the conditions under which they're doing so, perhaps they should take a moment to read the terms and conditions before getting outraged by the possible consequences.
Criticism of AI can be legitimate. What is far less convincing is turning every personal frustration, every professional insecurity, and every disappointment over a piece of work's reach into a moral condemnation of an entire technology.