There is something fascinating about the way we react when technology changes how art is created.
Today, the controversy centers on artificial intelligence. Some people see AI as an exciting creative tool. Others believe it threatens artistic originality, traditional skills, and even the definition of an artist.
But this is not the first time the art world has confronted a technology capable of producing images in ways that seemed almost impossible.
In 1839, that technology was photography. And the arguments surrounding its introduction sound surprisingly familiar.
1839: The Year Everything Changed
On January 7, 1839, the French Academy of Sciences learned about an extraordinary invention developed by Louis Daguerre. The daguerreotype could capture detailed images using light, chemistry, and a camera. Until then, creating a lasting visual representation generally required someone to draw, paint, or engrave it. Suddenly, a machine could record details with remarkable precision.
Imagine being a portrait painter whose livelihood depended on reproducing recognizable faces. What would happen when customers could obtain a photographic likeness instead? Would people still commission paintings? Would years of training become less valuable? And perhaps most importantly, could an image created through a mechanical process be considered art?
A famous declaration attributed to French painter Paul Delaroche captured the anxiety: painting was supposedly dead. Interestingly, historians have been unable to verify that he actually said it. Delaroche also expressed enthusiasm for photography’s potential usefulness to artists. That contradiction is revealing. Even at the beginning, photography could be understood as both a threat and an opportunity.
And painting, of course, did not die.
When Painters Started Using Photographs
What interests me most is not simply that photography survived its critics. It is what happened when painters began incorporating photographs into their creative processes. Consider the practical advantages. An artist painting a landscape might spend hours outdoors studying changing light, weather, and perspective. A portrait painter might require a model to sit through numerous sessions. A painter studying movement might struggle to capture a fleeting gesture.
Photography introduced another possibility. The artist could photograph the subject, preserve visual information, and return to the studio to develop the painting. The photograph became reference material. It did not necessarily determine the final composition, colors, emotional interpretation, or artistic message. The painter could select, modify, combine, exaggerate, or eliminate details.
Does that sound familiar?
It certainly does to me.
Gustave Courbet: The Photograph as a Reference
French painter Gustave Courbet, a leading figure in Realism, was among the nineteenth-century artists who incorporated photographic material into their work.
Courbet used photographs of models and drew on photographic references in portraiture. His 1865 painting Proudhon and His Children is especially interesting because the philosopher Pierre-Joseph Proudhon had died before the painting was completed. Photography provided information that could be studied after the subject was no longer available. But the resulting painting was not simply a photographic reproduction.
Courbet determined the composition and artistic interpretation. The photograph supplied information. The painter transformed it into a different artistic expression. This distinction matters.
Using a reference does not necessarily mean surrendering authorship to the source of that reference.
Thomas Eakins: Bringing the Camera Into the Studio
American painter Thomas Eakins offers another compelling example.
During the 1880s, Eakins incorporated photography into his artistic practice and encouraged students to learn the medium. He photographed people, studied anatomy, examined gestures, and explored the relationship between figures and their surroundings. He even used photographic projection techniques in developing certain paintings.
Yet his interest extended beyond simply copying photographs onto canvas. He considered the camera a tool for training observation. His work raises an important question. If an artist uses technology to understand anatomy, perspective, or composition more accurately, does that diminish the artistic value of the finished painting? Or does the technology expand what the artist can accomplish?
I would argue that the answer depends on how the technology is used.
Charles Sheeler: Photograph First, Paint Later
Perhaps the strongest historical connection to my own process comes from American artist Charles Sheeler.
Sheeler worked as both a photographer and painter during the twentieth century. In 1927, he photographed the Ford Motor Company’s River Rouge industrial complex. He subsequently developed paintings inspired by his photographic studies. By the late 1930s, photography had become an integral part of his painting process.
For his Power series, he photographed industrial and engineering subjects during his travels and then created paintings based on that material. He also experimented with combining photographic negatives to develop new compositions. Think about that process. He collected visual information, evaluated the results, selected elements, and transformed those references into paintings.
The camera did not eliminate his role as an artist. It became part of his production system. Today, we might describe aspects of that workflow as visual research, compositional development, and post-production. The terminology has changed. The underlying creative decisions remain recognizable.
Photography Also Changed What Artists Wanted to Paint
Photography did more than provide reference material. It changed painting itself. When a camera could reproduce physical details quickly, painters had new reasons to explore what painting could accomplish beyond literal representation. Impressionism, Post-Impressionism, Cubism, and other movements developed during the decades following photography’s introduction. These movements had many influences, and photography was not their sole cause.
Nevertheless, photographic cropping, unusual perspectives, and the ability to capture fleeting moments contributed to changing visual conventions. Photography challenged painters to reconsider their relationship with reality. Instead of simply reproducing what the eye could see, artists increasingly explored how they experienced, remembered, and interpreted the world. In that sense, photography did not merely compete with painting. It helped expand the possibilities of visual art.
Fast Forward to 2026: Enter Artificial Intelligence
Today, I find myself participating in a similar discussion. I use artificial intelligence to brainstorm concepts and develop visual prototypes, particularly when exhibition deadlines are short. My process begins with an artistic idea. I decide what I want the artwork to communicate. Then I use software to explore possibilities.
I might change the composition, adjust the perspective, remove unnecessary elements, introduce different colors, or experiment with scale. Frequently, I go through numerous iterations before selecting a direction. Once the concept satisfies my objectives, I move it into a post-production process where I continue developing the artistic interpretation. I may modify perspective, introduce photographic elements, adjust textures, refine relationships, or otherwise transform the image. The software helps me work efficiently.
But efficiency is not the same as creative surrender.
I am not asking the software to decide what I believe is worth creating. I am using it to explore how my idea might be realized.
That is an important distinction.
But AI Is Not the Same as Photography
While the historical comparison is useful, I do not believe the technologies are identical. A camera generally records light from a physical scene. Generative AI can synthesize images from learned patterns without requiring the depicted scene to exist. AI systems also raise difficult questions about training data, copyright, artistic imitation, and the economic effects of automated image production. These concerns deserve serious consideration.
There is another risk I recognize in my own work. AI can produce an attractive image so quickly that an artist may begin responding to the software’s choices instead of pursuing the original creative vision. The artist becomes a reviewer rather than the director. That is a danger I want to avoid. I believe the solution is to establish artistic intentions before generating alternatives and to remain willing to reject visually impressive results that do not serve the concept.
Technology should expand my creative choices, not quietly make them for me.
Who Is Really Creating the Artwork?
This brings me to the question that keeps surfacing in conversations about my process.
If I originate the concept, establish the design direction, select and reject alternatives, make repeated revisions, and determine the final artistic interpretation, am I not responsible for the artwork? I believe I am responsible for those creative decisions. However, responsibility does not automatically mean that every AI-generated element qualifies as my original expression under copyright law. That distinction matters.
Artistic direction, human-authored expression, technical execution, and legal ownership are related but separate considerations. I can acknowledge the software’s contribution without pretending that it made no decisions. And I can recognize its contribution without abandoning my own artistic judgment. The important question is how much meaningful creative control I actually exercised.
What History Can Teach Us
When photography arrived in 1839, some observers worried that machines would replace artists. Instead, photography became both an independent artistic medium and an important tool within other artistic practices. Painters used photographs as references. Artists developed new ways of seeing. Entire movements explored possibilities beyond photographic realism.
But the transition was not painless. Photography also disrupted livelihoods, challenged established standards, and created debates about originality and artistic value. Artificial intelligence may produce equally significant changes, although its consequences will not necessarily follow the same path.
What history teaches me is not that every new technology deserves unquestioning acceptance. It teaches me that artistic legitimacy cannot be determined solely by whether a machine participated in production. We must examine what the artist contributed, what the technology contributed, and what the finished work communicates.
My Final Thought
I have no desire to abandon photography, digital editing, or emerging technologies simply because someone questions their place in art.
Nor do I want technology to make my creative decisions for me.
I want to remain curious.
I want to experiment.
I want to explore new methods while continuing to develop my own artistic voice.
Perhaps the next time someone asks whether I used AI to create a piece of artwork, I will ask a question in return. Would we have questioned Charles Sheeler’s artistic contribution because he photographed a factory before painting it? Would we have dismissed Thomas Eakins because he used photographic studies? The comparison is not perfect, but it encourages a more thoughtful conversation.
The history of art is not simply the history of artists learning to use new tools. It is the history of artists deciding what those tools make possible.
In 1839, the camera changed how artists could see and record the world.
In 2026, artificial intelligence is changing how artists can explore and develop visual ideas.
The question I continue to ask is not whether technology belongs in my creative process. It is whether I remain the person making the decisions that matter.
And that is a responsibility I intend to keep.
