We are living through a second flood. The first, chronicled by Walter Benjamin, was a rising tide of mechanical reproduction that stripped the artwork of its unique presence in time and space, its ritual weight. What we face now is a deluge of a different order, not the copying of an original, but the generation of the ostensibly original itself. This synthetic reproducibility, instant and infinite, does not so much wash away the aura of the artwork as dissolve the very ground from which aura once grew. For the artist, this marks a profound reordering, a passage through a great filter that demands a reckoning with why creation matters in a world saturated with the facsimile of creation.
The crisis is, at its heart, an economic one, born from the final victory of exhibition value over all else. Benjamin saw how reproduction prised art from the domain of ritual, making it a political, exhibitable object. AI hyper-production perfects this shift, creating a universe of content whose sole purpose is to be displayed, circulated, and consumed, utterly detached from any ritual of human making. When ten thousand competent images can be summoned to fill a website’s empty corners, the market value of such functional work collapses. The commercial artist is stranded, their skill rendered not scarce but superfluous in a marketplace where the exhibitable object has been liberated from the cost of its production.
This leads to the deafening, companion problem: the drowning-out effect. If everything can be exhibited, then nothing is seen. The channels of distribution become clogged with a spectral, ceaseless tide, a ‘slop’ of algorithmic potential. Discovery becomes a lottery. In this storm of accessibility, the scarce resource is no longer the means of production, but attention. And attention, in such a climate, refuses to be captured on the mass scale that the logic of exhibition value demands; it must be cultivated in the intimate, shadowed spaces the floodlight cannot reach.
Consequently, the artist’s identity fractures and reassembles. The role shifts from creator to curator, editor, and context-engineer. If the machine handles the ‘how,’ the human value retreats into the realms of conception, discernment, and judgement. The artistic self becomes a more ghostly thing, defined less by the manual trace and more by the authority of selection and the narrative woven around the chosen fragment. For some, this is a liberation from tradition’s heavy hand; for others, it feels like the final severance of that unique phenomenon of a distance, however close it may be, that once clung to the hand-wrought object.
This forced evolution makes brutally clear a distinction that has long been blurred: the split between ‘content’ and ‘art.’ ‘Content’ is the pure, polished exhibit. It is information, filler, ornament, the fulfilment of a demand. For this, the synthetic process is peerless. ‘Art,’ however, must now be defined by what it stubbornly retains or reclaims. It must be an act where the process and the human context are the irreducible core, where the value cannot be extracted from the texture of its making. Its purpose shifts from exhibition back towards a new kind of ritual, not of cult, but of verifiable human connection. The artist must now choose which master they serve.
The only viable path, therefore, is a strategic retreat to the domains presence in time and space still governs. Since the object alone is forever suspect, value must be painstakingly rebuilt around radical context and provenance. The aura must be consciously, authentically reconstructed. This becomes the artist’s new, urgent work.
The story of the object’s making is now its last line of defence. The narrative, the intention, the struggle, the trace of the human journey, ceases to be a mere accompaniment and becomes the primary text. Proof of origin becomes a sacred credential. As a latter-day witness to this crisis noted, the only territory where authenticity can now be assured is “in the room with the person who made the thing.” The live performance, the studio visit, the act of co-creation: these are no longer secondary events but the central, unassailable offering. Here, art reclaims its here and now, its witnessable authenticity in a shared moment that no algorithm can simulate or inhabit.
The Unmaking of the Unique
Thus, hyper-production functions as a great filter. It mercilessly commoditises the exhibit, washing away the economic model of the last century. In doing so, it forces a terrible, clarifying question upon every practitioner: what can you anchor your work to that is beyond the reach of synthetic reproduction?
The emerging responses are maps of this new terrain. Some become context engineers, building immersive narratives where the work is a relic of a true human story. Others become synthesist collaborators, directing the machine with a voice of defiantly human taste. A faction turns resolutely physical, seeking refuge in the stubborn, three-dimensional ‘thingness’ that defies flawless digital transference. Yet others become architects of experience, crafting frameworks for interaction where the art is the fleeting, collective moment itself. And many will retreat to cultivate a deep niche, a dedicated community for whom the human trace is the only currency that holds value.
The flood will not cease. The exhibition value of the world will be met, and exceeded, by synthetic means. But this crisis, by shattering the professionalised model, may ironically clear the way for a return to art’s first principles: not as a commodity for distribution, but as a medium for human connection, a testament of presence, and a ritual of shared meaning. The future of art lies not in battling the currents of reproduction, but in learning to build arks, vessels of witnessed, authentic experience that can navigate the vast and glittering, but ultimately hollow, sea of the endlessly exhibitable.
Quentin Budworth 