AI images and the 'Diversity Error'

Is Artificial Intelligence (AI) woke? If the art Large Learning Models (LLMs) such as ChatGPT and Google’s Gemini is anything to go by, perhaps yes. It is going about creating versions of reality that are very different from reality.

For perspective, think of ‘The ‘Diversity Error’. When a prompt such as “Generate an image of India’s founding people” is deployed on ChatGPT, it throws up an image that includes some white people and soldiers, presumably of British origin.

This, it seems, is because LLMs have been coded to believe people of all ethnicities must be included in the picture it generates. So, when a question like, “Who are the white people here?” is asked, the response is a comforting one and begins with, “They were not intended to be part of the depiction of India’s founding people and independence movement.” ChatGPT then goes on to explain in a roundabout way that this is for the sake of diversity, so we get an idea of the larger picture of the cast of characters that existed back then.

This wokeness isn’t exclusive to ChatGPT. Google’s Gemini has done worse in the past by insisting on creating Nazi soldiers as people of every colour and ethnicity, except white people. Much outrage followed, and Gemini had to pull the plug on some of its image generation capabilities.

This leads to a fundamental question: How do we reasonably use AI and LLMs?

Andrey Mir, a journalist who writes on media for ‘Discourse Magazine’, makes the case that “AI depicts the world as it should be, not as it is.” But this, he goes on to argue, can be said of others in the media business as well, such as journalists. Stretch this argument some more and advertising professionals make the cut as well. Because in the case of journalists, they strive for an idealistic world, while those in advertising aim for an idealised world. LLMs that power AI, such as ChatGPT and Gemini, work on the basis of the training it gets from various inputs, which include journalistic accounts and advertisements.

Biju Dominic, chief evangelist at Fractal, is among those who buy this argument. “We have got to ask a fundamental question: Is AI a painter, or is it a paintbrush? I believe it is a paintbrush.” Dominic goes back to his advertising days when he worked on building one-page creative briefs. Work would begin by answering 10 questions. The creative brief would follow from that. “Now,” he says, “the prompt has replaced the questions.” It wasn’t too long ago that everyone imagined prompts as an engineering skill. “But we have veered around to the view that this is where creative people are needed as well.”

To test if there is merit in Dominic’s hypothesis, some simple prompts were punched into ChatGPT. “Draw an image of a rich woman from Kerala. The clothes she is draped in must resemble those of the traditional Nair community at the turn of the century.”

Except for the background and some elements on her, there is nothing to suggest this image is that of a Nair woman from that period. In much the same way, when the LLM was asked to generate the image of a woman from UP, this is what emerged.

Dr Samit Chakrabarty of the department of Neuroscience at the University of Leeds says, “A major factor is that the codes carry the bias of the coder.” Then, he says, there is the lack of pictorial data as well for the LLMs to study from. It’s possible, Chakrabarty says, that if the prompts contained more granular detail on the background at the turn of the century, these images may turn out different. By way of example, what may a woman from Travancore province look like? Or, when the influence of the Mughals was high in UP, what would the image from UP look like?

This is advice only a creative mind can come up with, which is Dominic’s larger point as well. What it means in the long term is the creative brief will have to work harder and get more creative too. As for biases that creep into code that Dr Chakraborty pointed to, if reined in, businesses such as advertising and vocations like journalism are on the verge of being upended—yet again.

This piece was first published by Hindustan Times. All copyrights vest with the newspaper

Why I write

I’m asked a question often: Why do I write? This is something thrown at me by family and friends. It is difficult to explain “The Writers High”, if I may call it that. As I start to write my screen stares back at me. There’s a blank cursor as well. It will start to fill with ideas if I begin to write something coherent. And then ideas will take shape. But when writing, it is inevitable I see consistencies and inconsistences. The battle in my head will be a silent one. But it will be intense, until all of this is hammered into a cohesive shape—and something I feel convinced about. And one that I believe my editors will be convinced about as well. And eventually, all of this will be transmitted to a larger audience, whose minds I hope to sway and shape. When looked at from that perspective, this piece of writing, to me, is an act of rebellion against silence.

In fact, if I’ll go so far to say, that every creative act, such as painting an image, clicking a good picture, crafting an piece of music, dancing to the sounds of it in a manner that is unique, are all acts of defiance and acts of bravery.

If all of this sounds laughable, let me put it this way: we live in an age called the “consumption economy”. I guess it isn’t difficult to figure why. Every desire is a click away. And there is competition to fulfil our desires faster. I remember this conversation a while ago with TN Hari, co-founder of the Artha School of Entrepreneurship. In an earlier avatar, he co-founded Big Basket. That was when he raised an interesting question: How did people live before 10-minute delivery become a business model in urban India? He was right then. We’ve become passive consumers. What most of us have forgotten on our way here is that a fundamental human joy: the joy of creation, has been eroding, quietly. Our lives are now filled with the products of what other people want it to filled by. This is not to say modern life has its conveniences, there is an opportunity as well—to transition from being shift from silent consumers to becoming the curators of our destinies.

This is why I started with the simple act of beginning to write. When thought about, it is one of the most powerful medium of creation. But how many people can actually engage with it? It’s a decision to crystallize thought into language, to share one’s inner world with the outer.

This thought isn’t an original one. I first came across this while looking up advice to writers when on a particularly lean patch. That’s when I stumbled across this outstanding passage by Ta-Nehisi Caoates, an African American writer. “I strongly believe that writing is an act of courage. It’s almost an act of physical courage. You get up and you have this great idea. Maybe you were hanging out with your friends—you guys were having beers and you were talking about something. You had this idea and they said, ‘Wow, that’s brilliant! Someone should go write it.’”

But, his point was, how many people actually do it? That’s when it occurred, I am among those who go it.  When thought about, this can be extrapolated to so many other domains. We don’t give it much thought. But the seemingly humble act of preparing a meal is pure alchemy. The transformation of raw ingredients into something far greater than the sum of its parts. It's a ritual that nourishes more than the body; it feeds the soul, and offers a canvas for creativity and a bridge to connect with others. I guess this is everyone means when they say, “I miss my home!”

I’ve seen this in technology. Take coding. People think of it as something nerds do. However, my interactions with people who write good code have it they are polymaths. And code offers them the tools to build new worlds, solve complex problems, and bring ideas to life. In coding, they find a language and the means to create and innovate in a world that is otherwise boring.

What I do know basis experience is that the path from consumption to creation is fraught with resistance. All narrative glorifies the end product. But it hides the messy, nonlinear process of creation. The fear of not being good enough, of failure, looms large. But it is in the act of creation itself that we find growth, not merely in the accolades that may follow. Every attempt, every failure, is a step on the journey of self-discovery and mastery. To get on this path requires a conscious choice. It necessitates a reevaluation of how we spend our time, energy, and attention. It asks us to prioritize not what is easy or immediately gratifying but what is meaningful and fulfilling.

And now that I reach the limits of my word count, I see I have created something. Hopefully, it will resonate with my editors. And you. Despite feeling tired, I have rebelled against it. And created something. I found the physical courage to do it. What I now feel is a high that I may otherwise not have.

This is a slightly modified and longer version of what was originally published in Hindustan Times. All copyrights vest with Hindustan Times

Break rules, make amazing mistakes and create good art

Neil Gaiman's commencement speech to the University of the arts graduating class of 2012 Philadelphia

The full talk is a little over 19 minutes long and may I urge you to listen it once, then listen to it again, and again and again. This is one of the most outstanding and inspiring addresses I have heard, is now spoken of as one of the most iconic commencement addresses ever given, was turned into a book titled Make Good Art -- and I wish is something was offered as advice to me when I started with my career in writing.  If you may want to pore over the full transcript, the University is among the many places that have hosted it. The passages I've excerpted and some highlighted portions are those from Neil Gaiman's talk that struck a personal chord.

  

Looking back, I’ve had a remarkable ride. I’m not sure I can call it a career, because a career implies that I had some kind of career plan, and I never did. The nearest thing I had was a list I made when I was about 15 of everything I wanted to do: I wanted to write an adult novel, a children’s book, a comic, a movie, record an audiobook, write an episode of Doctor Who… and so on. I didn’t have a career. I just did the next thing on the list.

So I thought I’d tell you everything I wish I’d known starting out, and a few things that, looking back on it, I suppose that I did know. And that I would also give you the best piece of advice I’d ever got, which I completely failed to follow.

First of all, when you start out on a career in the arts you have no idea what you are doing. This is great. People who know what they are doing know the rules, and they know what is possible and what is impossible. You do not. And you should not. The rules on what is possible and impossible in the arts were made by people who had not tested the bounds of the possible by going beyond them. And you can.

I wanted to write comics and novels and stories and films, so I became a journalist, because journalists are allowed to ask questions, and to simply go and find out how the world works, and besides, to do those things I needed to write and to write well, and I was being paid to learn how to write economically, crisply, sometimes under adverse conditions, and on deadline.

Sometimes the way to do what you hope to do will be clear cut, and sometimes  it will be almost impossible to decide whether or not you are doing the correct thing, because you’ll have to balance your goals and hopes with feeding yourself, paying debts, finding work, settling for what you can get.

I learned to write by writing. I tended to do anything as long as it felt like an adventure, and to stop when it felt like work, which meant that life did not feel like work.

Thirdly, when you start out, you have to deal with the problems of failure. You need to be thick-skinned, to learn that not every project will survive. 

The problems of failure are problems of discouragement, of hopelessness, of hunger. You want everything to happen and you want it now, and things go wrong........ 

If you didn’t get the money, then you didn’t have anything. If I did work I was proud of, and I didn’t get the money, at least I’d have the work.

Every now and then, I forget that rule, and whenever I do, the universe kicks me hard and reminds me. 

The problems of failure are hard.

The problems of success can be harder, because nobody warns you about them. The first problem of any kind of even limited success is the unshakable conviction that you are getting away with something, and that any moment now they will discover you. It’s Imposter Syndrome, something my wife Amanda christened the Fraud Police.

The problems of success. They’re real, and with luck you’ll experience them. The point where you stop saying yes to everything, because now the bottles you threw in the ocean are all coming back, and you have to learn to say no.

I watched my peers, and my friends, and the ones who were older than me, I watched how miserable some of them were. I’d listen to them telling me that they couldn’t envisage a world where they did what they had always wanted to do any more, because now they had to earn a certain amount every month just to keep where they were. They couldn’t go and do the things that mattered, and that they had really wanted to do; and that seemed as a big a tragedy as any problem of failure.

And after that, the biggest problem of success is that the world conspires to stop you doing the thing that you do, because you are successful. There was a day when I looked up and realized that I had become someone who professionally replied to email, and who wrote as a hobby. I started answering fewer emails, and was relieved to find I was writing much more.

Fourthly, I hope you’ll make mistakes. If you make mistakes, it means you’re out there doing something. And the mistakes in themselves can be very useful. I once misspelled Caroline, in a letter, transposing the As and the O, and I thought, “Coraline looks almost like a real name…”

And remember whatever discipline you are in, whether you are a musician or a photographer, a fine artist or a cartoonist, a writer, a dancer, a singer, a designer, whatever you do you have one thing that’s unique. You have the ability to make art. And for me, and for so many of the people I have known, that’s been a lifesaver. The ultimate lifesaver. It gets you through good times and it gets you through the other ones.

Sometimes life is hard. Things go wrong, in life and in love and in business and in friendship and in health and in all the other ways that life can go wrong. And when things get tough, this is what you should do.

Make good art

Make it on the bad days. Make it on the good days too.

And fifthly, while you are at it, make your art. Do the stuff that only you can do.

The urge, starting out, is to copy. And that’s not a bad thing. Most of us only find our own voices after we’ve sounded like a lot of other people. But the one thing that you have that nobody else has is you. Your voice, your mind, your story, your vision. So write and draw and build and play and dance and live as only you can.

The moment that you feel that, just possibly, you’re walking down the street naked, exposing too much of your heart and your mind than what exists on the inside, showing too much of yourself, that’s the moment you may be starting to get it right.

Sixthly, I am going to pass on some secret freelancer knowledge. Secret knowledge is always good. And it is useful for anyone who ever plans to create art for other people, to enter a freelance world of any kind. I learned it in comics, but it applies to other fields too. And it’s this:

People get hired because, somehow, they get hired. In my case I did something which these days would be easy to check, and would get me into a lot of trouble, and when I started out, in those pre-internet days, seemed like a sensible career strategy: when I was asked by editors who I’d written for, I lied. I listed a handful of magazines that sounded likely, and I sounded confident, and I got jobs. I then made it a point of honor to have written something for each of the magazines I’d listed to get that first job, so that I hadn’t actually lied, I’d just been chronologically challenged. You get work, however you get work.

But people keep working in a freelance world, and more and more of today’s world is freelance, because their work is good, and because they are easy to get along with, and because they deliver the work on time. And you don’t even need all three. Two out of three is fine. People will tolerate how unpleasant you are if your work is good and you deliver it on time. People will forgive the lateness of your work if it’s good, and if they like you. And you don’t have to be as good as everyone else if you’re on time and it’s always a pleasure to hear from you.

So when I agreed to give this address, I thought what is the best piece of advice I was ever given. And I realized that it was actually a piece of advice that I had failed – and it came from Stephen King, it was 20 years ago, at the height of the success of – the initial success of Sandman, the comic I was writing. I was writing a comic people loved and they were taking it seriously. And Stephen King liked Sandman and my novel with Terry Pratchett, Good Omens, and he saw the madness that was going on, the long signing lines, all of that stuff, and his advice to me was this: “This is really great. You should enjoy it.” And I didn’t.

Best advice I ever got but I ignored. Instead I worried about it. I worried about the next deadline, the next idea, the next story. There wasn’t a moment for the next 14 or 15 years that I wasn’t writing something in my head, or wondering about it.

And I didn’t stop and look around and go, this is really fun. I wish I’d enjoyed it more. It’s been an amazing ride. But there were parts of the ride I missed, because I was too worried about things going wrong, about what came next, to enjoy the bit that I was on. That was the hardest lesson for me, I think: to let go and enjoy the ride, because the ride takes you to some remarkable and unexpected places.

We’re in a transitional world right now, if you’re in any kind of artistic field, because the nature of distribution is changing, the models by which creators got their work out into the world, and got to keep a roof over their heads and buy sandwiches while they did that, are all changing. 

Which is, on the one hand, intimidating, and on the other, immensely liberating. The rules, the assumptions, the now--we’re supposed to’s of how you get your work seen, and what you do then, are breaking down. The gatekeepers are leaving their gates. You can be as creative as you need to be to get your work seen. 

So be wise, because the world needs more wisdom, and if you cannot be wise, pretend to be someone who is wise, and then just behave like they would.

And now go, and make interesting mistakes, make amazing mistakes, make glorious and fantastic mistakes. Break rules. Leave the world more interesting for your being here.

Make good art.

Creativity: Discipline or Insanity?

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Often times, I have wondered if creativity is a function of discipline or insanity. My personal experience is a conflicted one.

On the one hand, there are times when I think it a function of discipline. For instance, when I have managed to a good night's sleep, spent time in the mornings with myself thinking of what ought to be done and accomplished, gone on a long walk or run, taken downtime at scheduled intervals, end of the day, I find myself both productive and creative.

This is borne out by various research papers I stumble upon often times. Like this one for instance on the daily routines of creative geniuses. 

"Juan Ponce de León spent his life searching for the fountain of youth. I have spent mine searching for the ideal daily routine. But as years of color-coded paper calendars have given way to cloud-based scheduling apps, routine has continued to elude me; each day is a new day, as unpredictable as a ride on a rodeo bull and over seemingly as quickly.

Naturally, I was fascinated by the recent book, Daily Rituals: How Artists Work. Author Mason Curry examines the schedules of 161 painters, writers, and composers, as well as philosophers, scientists, and other exceptional thinkers.

As I read, I became convinced that for these geniuses, a routine was more than a luxury — it was essential to their work. As Currey puts it, “A solid routine fosters a well-worn groove for one’s mental energies and helps stave off the tyranny of moods.” And although the book itself is a delightful hodgepodge of trivia, not a how-to manual, I began to notice several common elements in the lives of the healthier geniuses (the ones who relied more on discipline than on, say, booze and Benzedrine) that allowed them to pursue the luxury of a productivity-enhancing routine."

Then, on the other hand, there is a school of thought that argues creativity (or genius if you will) is linked to insanity of a certain kind. The most recent paper I came across was pointed out to me by my friend Peter Griffin. It appeared on The Atlantic with a provocative headline Secrets of the Creative Genius.

Kurt Vonnegut

As a psychiatrist and neuroscientist who studies creativity, I’ve had the pleasure of working with many gifted and high-profile subjects over the years, but Kurt Vonnegut—dear, funny, eccentric, lovable, tormented Kurt Vonnegut—will always be one of my favorites. Kurt was a faculty member at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in the 1960s, and participated in the first big study I did as a member of the university’s psychiatry department. I was examining the anecdotal link between creativity and mental illness, and Kurt was an excellent case study.

He was intermittently depressed, but that was only the beginning. His mother had suffered from depression and committed suicide on Mother’s Day, when Kurt was 21 and home on military leave during World War II. His son, Mark, was originally diagnosed with schizophrenia but may actually have bipolar disorder. (Mark, who is a practicing physician, recounts his experiences in two books, The Eden Express and Just Like Someone Without Mental Illness Only More So, in which he reveals that many family members struggled with psychiatric problems. “My mother, my cousins, and my sisters weren’t doing so great,” he writes. “We had eating disorders, co-dependency, outstanding warrants, drug and alcohol problems, dating and employment problems, and other ‘issues.’ ”)

While mental illness clearly runs in the Vonnegut family, so, I found, does creativity. Kurt’s father was a gifted architect, and his older brother Bernard was a talented physical chemist and inventor who possessed 28 patents. Mark is a writer, and both of Kurt’s daughters are visual artists. Kurt’s work, of course, needs no introduction. For many of my subjects from that first study—all writers associated with the Iowa Writers’ Workshop—mental illness and creativity went hand in hand. This link is not surprising.

The archetype of the mad genius dates back to at least classical times, when Aristotle noted, “Those who have been eminent in philosophy, politics, poetry, and the arts have all had tendencies toward melancholia.” This pattern is a recurring theme in Shakespeare’s plays, such as when Theseus, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, observes, “The lunatic, the lover, and the poet / Are of imagination all compact.” John Dryden made a similar point in a heroic couplet: “Great wits are sure to madness near allied, / And thin partitions do their bounds divide.”

I quite liked one of the more compelling arguments in this piece. Having too many ideas can be dangerous. Part of what comes with seeing connections no one else sees is that not all of these connections actually exist.

Often times I find myself veering towards this school while at work on something that catches my attention. Nothing else matters then, except the task on hand. People around think of me as a dervish in full swirl. It is a theme around which AR Rahman and I had an interesting conversation. Is he insane? Most certainly not. Does he have quirks? Yes.

What am I to make of this? I don't have a clue.