The Post-Credit World.

Since this morning's post, artists have been writing in to say they've stopped sharing their work. That's the saddest part. (Comments are open to everyone on this one!)

Hey again, friend. Sorry for turning up twice in one day. (I know. Like a houseguest who leaves, then comes back for his umbrella and stays for dinner. And Dessert.)

I’ll keep it short. The response to this morning’s post caught me completely off guard. My inbox and the comments filled up with artists from all over the planet, and honestly I’ve been sitting here having a bit of a moment about it... More than a bit. I suspect there are plenty more to come. It’s made me think about the long-term goals of these deranged tech utopian overlords who think that the ability to churn out slop is the key to global happiness.

So please, sound off in the comments. I read every one of them, and this is a conversation worth having out loud. For this post, I’ve opened the comments to everyone, not just paid subscribers, because I think it’s important that people see and hear this, and that it’s date-stamped.

With that said, here’s what happened after this morning’s newsletter went out…

Okay.

So.

I did NOT expect this morning’s post to get the mail it got… It went a little nuts. (Normally my inbox is three podcast pitches and an irate man in Ohio who wants me to draw his boat with a face on it.)

But since ‘Aaaaand Now The Robots Are Forging Our Signatures’ hit everyone’s inboxes, the replies haven’t stopped pouring in. Public comments, private emails, DMs, and nearly all of them say the same thing, more or less…

They’ve stopped posting their work.

Illustrators. Cartoonists. Painters who’ve had their stuff online for 15 years. They’re pulling it down, or never putting it up in the first place, because Instagram, Facebook, DeviantArt, Google, the stock libraries and their own little Wix/Squarespace portfolio websites have all been quietly hoovered up into a mosnter that spits their style back out. Even worse, with their fucking name scrawled in the corner.

That’s the thing that gets me the most. Not the theft. We’ve had theft since the cave paintings. (Someone always copied the good captionless bison cartoon.)

It’s the signature in the corner.

Your name used to be the one thing you still had control over. Your legacy. The wobbly autograph at the bottom that said: I made this, and I’ll answer for the bullshit that comes with it.

If you enjoy my work and would like to support, please upgrade to become a paid subscriber (only $1 per week)

That’s gone now. Welcome to the post-credit world. (Not post-credits, the bit after a Phase 6 Marvel film when everyone’s now already in the car park scraping popcorn butter off their lap. Although, that too.)

For 25 years, someone in a bedroom in Perth / Lagos / Lima could draw something on a Tuesday and by Wednesday it was stuck to a fridge in Reykjavík. I know, because I was that bloke in Perth, and the internet was the only reason anyone outside my postcode in the suburbs ever saw a single drawing of mine. (Most of them saw one and stopped there. Still counts.)

Now the only way to see some of these artists will be to be in the room. A gallery in Chelsea. A festival in the Lake District. A bar where someone’s drawing live with a crappy old pen…

Which is lovely. If you live there.
If you don’t, you’ll never know they existed.

The internet was the greatest gallery ever built. Turns out it was also the loading dock for slop.

And somewhere tonight, someone is finishing the best drawing they’ll ever make… and putting it in a fucking drawer.

Sorry to be a bummer.

‘til next time!
Your pal,

PS. Look, if this actually did something for your brain (or at least distracted you from the creeping dread of your own inbox for six minutes), please consider restacking this and sharing it with your people. It’s the only way the word spreads.