Living as an Artist in the Age of AI

Living as an Artist in the Age of AI

In this era of artificial intelligence, I am asked a different kind of question—by my students, my clients, and sometimes even by friends and family. In the past, people mainly wondered whether one could really make a living through art. Even now, my paintings sell well, my classes fill up, and my work continues to grow, but compared to other professions, the income can feel woefully insufficient. Of course, in the art world too, the top one percent—the famous names everyone recognizes—earn more than the combined income of countless working artists. But that structure is no different in the tech world. All the money inevitably flows toward a small handful of people. Sometimes there’s a reason, but often there isn’t.

When I used to work in an IT company, the phrase “dot-com bubble” was everywhere. If a company created something and simply added “.com” to its name, it could receive reckless, uninformed investment. I actually witnessed companies like that. I also remember a scholar who once visited our research lab—a man who had spent decades developing a stem-cell-based diagnostic technology. He looked exactly like the kind of person you’d expect to be doing serious scientific work. Yet he confessed, almost bitterly, that investors wanted results that were more sensational, more glamorous. Even if his technology could spark a revolution, no one was interested. I still think about him sometimes. His words were discouraging, but perhaps having a world of research that belongs entirely to you is its own form of blessing.

Now, however, when the entire world seems to be sprinting toward AI, I find myself being asked how artists will survive—and I feel that I, too, need some kind of answer. Recently, I binge-watched the Korean drama Mr. Sunshine on Netflix. It follows a boy born into slavery who escapes to the United States, becomes a U.S. Marine officer, and later returns to Joseon, where he becomes entangled with a noblewoman secretly involved in the Righteous Army. As the country faces collapse under foreign pressure, political conflict, and shifting alliances force each character to choose what to protect—love, loyalty, or the nation itself—and many give everything they have.

One line from the drama has stayed with me. During the fierce battle of the 1871 U.S. expedition to Korea, when nearly everyone is about to die, a son begs his father to flee. But the father refuses, shouting, “If I run, who will protect this country?” He dies moments later. Something about that moment lodged itself in me.

Because sometimes I feel the same way.

If artificial intelligence swallows art—if it mocks, replaces, or erases it—then who will keep drawing? Shouldn’t I? Shouldn’t someone remain, painting more analog, more classical, more traditional work, like a fish swimming against the current? Even if every artist shakes their head and says this path has no future, I still want to be the one who survives, who holds onto the brush until the very end.

Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to work in a field that the world praises—one that is rewarded simply for existing. But none of us are guaranteed something like that. Even AI, now celebrated as the pinnacle of innovation, is threatening the jobs of the very people who built the tech industry. It feels a bit like watching Frankenstein come to life.

Yet I choose art because I believe in what cannot be seen. I believe in energy, in worlds that exist beyond the visible. These values matter more to me than practicality or financial security. That is why I chose art, and why I continue down this uncertain path. And to be honest, I don’t really know the answer to any of these questions. That’s why I opened this blog—to search for answers. To write, and rewrite, and keep writing until something reveals itself.
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In that sense, I often think of Cézanne, the artist I admire most. He devoted thirty-five years to uncovering the essence of painting, and in the end, he found it. Maybe, someday, I too will come close to that essence. And perhaps that essence is something AI will never understand.

​And so, I pick up my brush again, write again, and steady my heart once more. No matter where the world moves or how fast technology races ahead, I believe there is a realm that only human hands and human hearts can create. As long as that belief stays alive, I will keep walking toward it. Perhaps these questions and uncertainties will eventually lead me somewhere, and at the end of that path, I may finally encounter the essence of art I’ve been searching for. I don’t know when that moment will come, but I am certain of one thing: that essence is born from depths that artificial intelligence can never replace.