The Return of Colombia's Violent Baptisms

Alta Traición

José Emilio Pacheco

I don’t love my country.

Its abstract splendor is beyond my grasp.

But (although it sounds bad)

I would give my life

for ten places in it,

for certain people,

seaports, pinewoods, fortresses,

a run-down city, gray, grotesque,

various figures from its history,

mountains

(and three or four rivers)

On August 11, 2025, Colombian senator and presidential hopeful Miguel Uribe Turbay died, after holding on to life by a thread for a little over two months. In June, he had been the victim of an assassination attempt while giving a speech in a neighborhood of my native Bogotá. Miguel was not much older than I, and mutual acquaintances and friends linked our lives. Just hours before his death, he had spent the afternoon with my brother during a “get to know the candidates” event at a local social club.

 This coincidence of mundanity brought the tragedy close to home in a way that was all too common in my childhood. The conversations were always the same. They live in the cold air of the páramo and mingle with school memories that blur together with age: “Did you hear about so-and-so’s father?” “So-and-so lost his mother in that terrorist attack back in the ’90s.” “Your school trip is cancelled (again); we cannot guarantee anyone’s safety outside the city limits.”

 It was a strange time to grow up. My generation was conceived in the horrendous heights of the violence brought on by Pablo Escobar and his crew in the late 1980s, and grew up during the darkest moments of the country’s war against terrorist Marxist guerrillas.

 In the few years before my birth, the Medellín Cartel had murdered nearly every major candidate in the 1990 election: Jaime Pardo Leal, Jaime Bateman, Francisco Pizarro, and the presidential frontrunner, Luis Carlos Galán. They had also killed the Minister of Justice (Rodrigo Lara Bonilla), prominent journalists, countless judges, and a dizzying number of young policemen. Terrorism was a daily occurrence. Car bombs like the one planted for the DAS building (Colombia’s FBI) killed 57 people and instantly injured 2,248.

 We were essentially born into a country where the state had long since lost its ability to guarantee public safety. The government faced an enemy with more resources than itself. The citizenry watched as every attempt to end the relentless flagellation by the narco-cartels was instantly dashed by a cabal of psychopathic cocaine empresarios—endlessly fueled by the dollars being charmingly spent at New York’s Studio 54 and on Wall Street, as well as by the despondent addicts in the inner cities of America and Europe.

 It is hard to understand how so many young Colombian couples found the strength to imagine a future for their unborn children amidst the death and chaos of a failing state. In that act of love and hope, there is a message of resilience and commitment to a country that had already failed them, as it had failed their parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents.

 I was conceived during this time, as was Miguel Uribe. We were destined to be baptized by violence, as our parents had been, and their parents before them. I was still in the comfort of my mother’s womb when a four-year-old Miguel received this unwelcome “christening.” His mother, Diana Turbay—daughter of former President Julio César Turbay Ayala and a well-known journalist—was kidnapped on August 30, 1990, after being lured to what she believed would be an interview with the Spanish priest Manuel Pérez Martínez, also known as El Cura Pérez (“The Priest Pérez”) of the Marxist guerrilla ELN (National Liberation Army).

 The interview was a ruse orchestrated by Pablo Escobar. The supposed ELN members were, in fact, members of Los Priscos, a criminal gang working for Escobar. His objective was to kidnap prominent figures, including politicians and journalists, to pressure the Colombian government against approving an extradition treaty with the United States. Turbay and her cameraman, Richard Becerra, were held captive in Copacabana, Antioquia. She was tragically killed during a botched rescue operation on January 25, 1991. Miguel’s life would forever be altered.

 Every Colombian has had a more personal or distant baptism, but the pain is always deep. This baptism is our awakening to our unfortunate surroundings. Within my lifetime, many events could have served as my awakening, had I not been too young to comprehend them. I was already alive when Diana Turbay perished. I was roughly 3 years old when a huge car bomb planted by Pablo Escobar exploded at the Centro 93 mall, leaving 8 dead and 242 injured. I still frequent this mall, and the event had a particular effect on my mother, who still remembers it with horror.

Memory is strange and charming in our early years. I have many memories from when I was three or four. I remember a yellow sweater I wore often. I remember when McDonald’s opened in Bogotá in 1995. But I have no concrete memories of violence from that time. I was five when Álvaro Gómez Hurtado, a prominent Colombian politician and journalist, was assassinated on November 2, 1995, in Bogotá, as he left Sergio Arboleda University. He had been one of Colombia’s finest politicians and brightest minds. Despite his friendship with my grandfather, my only recollection is the image of his bullet-riddled navy Mercedes E-Class on the front page of the newspaper. The event lacked the necessary shock for the awakening into violence that would constitute a baptism.

 The conditions for my baptism were the product of a long chain of political circumstances. Pablo Escobar had been killed in 1993, the Medellín Cartel dismantled, and the Cali Cartel was on the back foot as the state re-established its dominance. At the same time, the Soviet Union had collapsed in 1991, ending decades of Soviet meddling in South America. The convergence of these events created a vacuum that the Marxist guerrillas—ELN and FARC—were quick to fill, inheriting the drug trade to replace both their lost Soviet patronage and the power once held by Escobar. They soon discovered, as he had before them, that the cocaine trade was far more lucrative than polishing the Komintern’s boot while reciting a poorly digested Das Kapital. With their newly found cocaine wealth, they soon had amassed an impressive arsenal and become proper armies for the first time in their dishonorable histories.

 By 1996, I had started “big boy” school and got my first fountain pen. It was red. I remember the political campaign leading up to the 1998 elections. My parents supported the conservative Andrés Pastrana, who promised to battle the ever-strengthening guerrillas—who, fueled by drug money, were for the first time convinced they could seize power over the country. Colombia is indeed the land of magical realism. At a time when the world celebrated the end of Soviet communism, and even the most pedantic fellow travelers at Le Monde were briefly forced to confront the horrors revealed by the brief opening of the Soviet archives, our banana republic’s aging Marxists only redoubled their conviction in a failed and barbarous communist system.

 Pastrana won. As war and terrorism intensified, I began to sense my impending baptism by violence. A baptism is not the same as the mere remembrance of a shocking event. This would be the tragedy of a normal country. Colombians are baptized by violence, and suddenly wake up to the horrible realization of the normality of perpetual violence in their country. They will never be able to return to the time before their knowledge.

 Eritis sicut Deus, scientes bonum et malum. (Now you are like God, knowing good and evil.)

 And so, my baptism came through the most mundane of traditions: Halloween. I always enjoyed Halloween, especially because my mother went out of her way to ensure we had unique costumes. I was never dressed as a superhero or a cowboy; that would have been far too commonplace for her. She always aimed for something unique and timeless. Our costumes were fantastic and custom-made, and probably sparked my lifelong love of custom hats and jackets. I remember my red military jacket when I was a toy soldier in kindergarten, and the custom bowler hat my mother had made for my Charlie Chaplin costume. For 1998, I oddly enough do not remember my costume, but I do remember my brother’s.

 He dressed as Heriberto de la Calle, a satirical fictional character created and portrayed by the Colombian humorist and journalist, Jaime Garzón. Heriberto de la Calle was a humble shoe-shine boy ("embolador") representing the lower working class in Colombia. Despite his seemingly simple occupation, he possessed a sharp intellect and an irreverent manner. Every night, he interviewed prominent figures while polishing their shoes, including politicians, models, actors, and other personalities. Through his interviews, Heriberto used humor and pointed questions to criticize Colombian politics, social issues, and corruption. He was a symbol of political satire and journalistic bravery in Colombia, particularly as Garzón himself was actively involved in promoting peace efforts in a time of political turmoil. He made a lot of enemies.

 Perhaps this costume stuck in my mind because it was particularly unusual. I doubt many of you saw 11-year-olds dressed as David Letterman in American high schools in 1998, but that year, my mother helped my brother oil his hair, dirty up his face, color out his front teeth, and even had a shoe-polishing box built to complete the costume. My father knew the owner of CM&, the network where Jaime Garzón worked, and so secured him the same shirt Heriberto wore each night. I remember my parents letting my brother stay up to study Heriberto, coaching him on how to imitate him, and explaining to us why the show was funny and important. I also remember my brother sitting in my parents’ closet, learning how to polish shoes to complete the act. There was some genius in the scheme; my brother would go on to polish my parents’ shoes throughout our childhood to make a little money. As usual, my brother’s costume was a success. Score one more for my infinitely charming mother.

 A few months later, during the summer of 1999, my baptism into violence finally arrived. It was a Saturday. I remember being at the club; the adults around me were somber, caught in conversations of disbelief, conversations they had repeated since their own baptisms. The kinds that only happen in a country where pain is the daily doom of its citizens. That morning, the newspaper had yet another car with its windows shattered by bullets. This time it wasn’t a Mercedes, but a Jeep Cherokee, crashed into a lamp post.

 I remember asking why people were so upset. And I remember being told that the night before, Jaime Garzón had been assassinated. I asked who that was. My mother explained that he was the comedian who played Heriberto de la Calle.

 Silence. “Him? The funny guy? Why?”

 I’m not sure what the answer was. How does a mother explain to her child what her parents once had to explain to her, and so on, through generations? How do you explain the commonplace nature of violence to a child? Whatever her answer, the baptism was complete. One is awakened to the reality, and violence becomes mundane. This is something few people in the first world can truly comprehend, especially as the barbarity of the 20th century fades into history.

 Jaime Garzón was a hero. I know we hear journalists in America refer to themselves as “dissidents.” But the stakes are too low in the safety of their countries for this to be anything more than masochistic wishful thinking. If Rachel Maddow, Stephen Colbert, or John Stewart had been reporters and political satirists in Colombia, they would have lost their nerve before the camera started recording. People who can’t wrap their heads around a cancellation or a contract reduction would be unlikely to survive in Garzón’s shoes. He was a real dissident. The stakes were high, and his irreverent humor was uncomfortable to violent men. His journalism cost him more than his career; it cost him his life.

 Colombia has experienced cycles of peace and violence, but the 20th and 21st centuries have been unrelenting. I can't know what awakened my great-grandparents. Could it have been the brutal ax murder of Liberal politician Rafael Uribe Uribe on the steps of the Capitol in 1914? My grandmother’s generation had their christening in April 1948, with the assassination of Jorge Eliécer Gaitán, the populist leader who might have rewritten Colombia’s history. His death sparked El Bogotazo — a day of riots that left the capital smoldering and marked the beginning of La Violencia, a civil war that would kill hundreds of thousands over the next decade. My grandmother and the whole family fled temporarily to Panama. A contemporary of my grandparents would tell us how he ran from school and hid in the kitchen pantry of the Jockey Club during the Bogotazo. The club and its illustrious members somehow survived the destruction by simply turning off the lights inside the gilded halls of the exclusive, members-only club. Had that been his baptism?

 And what about my parents? Perhaps it was an event in the aftermath of the general violence after 1948. Or perhaps their baptism came late, in the smoke and gunfire of November 1985. The M-19 guerrilla group stormed the Supreme Court, holding the country’s highest judges hostage, and demanding that the President, Belisario Betancur, come to the court and be judged for a vague collection of perceived crimes. What followed was a military response that ended with the building engulfed in flames, over a hundred dead, and eleven Supreme Court justices among the victims. The Palace of Justice siege was not just a headline; it was a nightmare seared into their memories. The videos are haunting and unbelievable to us now.

 Within the next decade, my parents would witness the country’s descent into the abyss—death after death—as each year brought more Colombians their own unfortunate baptisms. They had already lived through Escobar’s reign of terror and stupidity, and now they were raising children while the government rapidly lost control. Leaving the city became a risky adventure, one that could end with being kidnapped for ransom.

 We were just kids, and in many ways, we had great childhoods, but violence and atrocity were simply part of life. Every year brought news of someone within one or two degrees of separation being kidnapped, murdered, or threatened. Certain events transcended the personal, engulfing the entire nation in mourning and nihilism.

 The FARC’s many creative methods of building bombs were particularly grotesque. Many will remember the newspaper coverage of the 1996 Chalán attack, where FARC used a donkey bomb—50 kilograms of explosives disguised with bananas—that killed 11 police officers and the donkey. And who could forget the images of Elvia Cortés in 2000, the victim of a particularly sadistic act: a collar bomb placed around her neck by the FARC. It exploded, killing her and the bomb disposal technician who tried to save her.

 All of this unfolded while the cynical leaders of the FARC toyed with the government, standing them up at countless peace summits. Andrés Pastrana, then president of Colombia, had gone so far as to establish a demilitarized zone (Zona de Distensión) in Caguán in 1998 as a precondition for peace talks with the FARC. The area was larger than Switzerland, effectively granting the terrorist group its own state. But after numerous incidents—including escalating violence, a surge in kidnappings, and the hijacking of a plane by the FARC—Pastrana broke off the talks in February 2002. On the very day he ordered the re-occupation of the demilitarized zone, I remember seeing two tanks stationed at the entrance to my school, where the President’s children were students.

 A year later, on February 7, 2003, I was at home watching TV. It was a Friday. A loud bang. It’s not fireworks; the sound was too deep, the air too eerie. Moments later, the wail of ambulances. Then the phone rang. Our fears were confirmed: it was the unmistakable sound of a car bomb.

 The target? The El Nogal Club, a social and business club frequented by politicians, business executives, and foreign diplomats. It’s only a few blocks away. Many close friends were members, and I had attended my first teenage parties there not long before. Were any of them taking a swimming lesson, playing squash, or bowling that night? Too early to tell.

 The journalists arrived. The first images on TV were of a huge column of fire shooting upward from the parking garage as people scrambled to escape the inferno, while firefighters battled to contain the flames. The bomb, roughly 200 kilograms (450 pounds) of ammonium nitrate, fuel oil, and TNT, was hidden in a red Renault Mégane and detonated in the third-floor parking garage. The blast killed 36 people, including six children, and wounded more than 160. It was Colombia’s deadliest terrorist attack in over a decade. The following Monday at school, we learned that people we knew had been orphaned, injured, or lost forever.

 After that, people went out less. Parents wanted their teenagers at home. Simply living became a risk. Many emigrated. But then something unexpected happened. Andrés Pastrana’s successor, a little-known politician named Álvaro Uribe Vélez, had assumed the presidency a few months before the El Nogal Bomb with a pledge to combat the guerrillas and turn the tide after nearly a century of violence. His plan began to succeed, and from 2004 to 2020, the country’s new children became far less likely to be baptized by violence.

 It’s almost unbelievable to remember the hope I felt around 2015, when it was reported that the intensive care units at the Military Hospital in Bogotá were empty for the first time in its history. For the first time, this medical center was busy processing chemotherapy orders rather than amputations. Just six or seven years earlier, I had visited the hospital with my school to see soldiers who had been wounded and mutilated by the inhuman anti-personnel mines, the guerrillas’ weapon of choice for terrorism.

 Sixteen years of reprieve might seem brief to some, but it was long enough for an entire generation to grow up without enduring their baptisms. In fact, the math is even more generous: anyone born during that period—and now older than six or so—would likely see the horrors I’ve described as little more than curiosities of history…at least for those living in the cities. They were mistaken. We were all mistaken.

 Our great Nobel laureate in literature, Gabriel García Márquez, wrote a book in 1996 that told, in heartbreaking detail, the story of the kidnapping of Miguel Uribe Turbay’s mother: News of a Kidnapping. At the end of the book’s introduction, Gabo tells us the following:

To all the protagonists and collaborators goes my eternal gratitude for having made it possible that this brutal drama not be forgotten, a drama which, unfortunately, is only one episode in the biblical holocaust in which Colombia has been consumed for more than twenty years. I dedicate it to all of them, and with them to all Colombians—innocent and guilty alike—with the hope that this book will never happen to us again.

 That book has happened to us again in a way that one wishes were only a myth from Gabo’s fantastic tales. The book has not only happened again to Colombians—it has happened to the very same family. In 1991, when Miguel Uribe Turbay was just four years old, his mother was killed at the hands of Pablo Escobar. On August 11, 2025, his own four-year-old son was orphaned in a hauntingly similar fashion. The images from the cemetery, where Miguel Uribe Turbay’s wife, Claudia Tarazona, carries her orphaned son as the coffin descends into its eternal resting place, are heartbreaking. Equally moving are the images of his father, Miguel Uribe Londoño, burying his only son in the same way he buried his wife in 1991, while another four-year-old child —this time his grandson— tried to understand what was happening. What a macabre image of a multigenerational family tragedy the violent have left us.

 In this moment of national grief, those of us born into Colombia’s era of violence mourn a double loss: first, for a promising politician taken too soon, before his political potential could fully unfold; and second, for the end of a fragile peace. The baptisms have returned, claiming the generations that once benefited from a brief reprieve. For those now aged six to twenty-four, this is their first realization that they were born into a country where violence and death are not extraordinary—they are the norm. And for those who had their baptisms long ago, we are now also awoken from a slumber, a brief dream in which we dared to believe that normalcy was possible.

 We are once again awake, realizing that Colombia’s “baptisms” are not one-time events but an inheritance. As 2025 unfolds, Colombia seems poised for yet another cycle of blood and fear. The faces and names may have changed. The guerrillas have splintered, the cartels fractured, the politicians reshuffled. But the underlying currents of violence, impunity, and despair remain unchanged. Compared to the baptisms of my childhood, today’s horrors will arrive faster, sharper, and often broadcast for all to witness, yet the trauma is no less searing. The next generation will inherit this same crucible, shaped and hardened by it, as I was, and as Miguel was. History marches on, indifferent to hope or memory, and the realization settles like a weight: we are, it seems, doomed to repeat the pattern. And so we live, baptized once again, in the knowledge of good and evil, heirs to a country that repeats its tragedies without pause.

 With nothing left to say, and much to mourn, all that is left to say is Rest in Peace Miguel Uribe Turbay, may your memory be a blessing.

El Regreso de los Bautismos Violentos de Colombia

Alta Traición

José Emilio Pacheco

No amo mi patria.
Su fulgor abstracto es inasible.
Pero (aunque suene mal)
daría la vida
por diez lugares suyos,
ciertas gentes,
puertos, bosques de pinos, fortalezas,
una ciudad deshecha, gris, monstruosa,
varias figuras de su historia
montañas
(y tres o cuatro ríos)

 El 11 de agosto de 2025, el senador colombiano y precandidato presidencial Miguel Uribe Turbay falleció, tras aferrarse a la vida por un hilo durante poco más de dos meses. En junio, había sido víctima de un atentado mientras daba un discurso en un barrio de Bogotá. Miguel no era mucho mayor que yo, y nuestras vidas estaban ligadas por conocidos y amigos en común. Apenas unas horas antes de su muerte, había pasado la tarde con mi hermano en un evento con varios precandidatos.

 Esta coincidencia de cotidianeidad acercó la tragedia a casa de una manera que no pasaba desde mi juventud. Las conversaciones siempre eran las mismas. Se mezclaban con el aire frío del páramo en los días de colegio cuyos recuerdos con el tiempo se difuminan: “¿Supo lo del papá de fulano?” “Fulano perdió a su mamá en aquel atentado terrorista en los años 90.” “Su viaje escolar se cancela (otra vez); no podemos garantizar la seguridad de nadie fuera de los límites de la ciudad.”

 Fue un ambiente extraño para crecer. Mi generación fue concebida durante los horribles picos de violencia provocados por Pablo Escobar y su séquito a finales de los años 80, y se crió durante los momentos más oscuros de la guerra del país contra las guerrillas marxistas terroristas.

 En los años antes de mi nacimiento, el Cartel de Medellín había asesinado a casi todos los principales candidatos de las elecciones de 1990: Jaime Pardo Leal, Jaime Bateman, Francisco Pizarro y el claro favorito, Luis Carlos Galán. También habían matado al ministro de justicia (Rodrigo Lara Bonilla), a destacados periodistas, a innumerables jueces y a un número vertiginoso de jóvenes policías. El terrorismo era un hecho cotidiano. Bombas como la que colocaron en el edificio del DAS (el FBI colombiano) mató a 57 personas e hirió instantáneamente a 2.248.

 Básicamente, nacimos en un país donde el Estado había perdido hace tiempo su capacidad de garantizar la seguridad pública. El gobierno enfrentaba a un enemigo con más recursos que él, y la ciudadanía observaba cómo cada intento de poner fin a la implacable flagelación de los carteles de la droga era instantáneamente frustrado por una caterva de psicópatas empresarios de la cocaína, alimentados por los dólares tanto de sus glamurosos clientes en el Studio 54 de Nueva York y Wall Street, como por los adictos desdichados de las grandes ciudades de Estados Unidos y Europa.

 Es difícil entender cómo tantas parejas jóvenes colombianas encontraban la fuerza para imaginar un futuro para sus hijos a punto de nacer en medio de la muerte y el caos de un Estado fallido. En ese acto de amor y esperanza, hay un mensaje de resiliencia y compromiso por un país que, en muchos sentidos, había fallado a nuestros padres, así como a sus padres, abuelos y bisabuelos.

 Fui concebido en ese tiempo, al igual que Miguel Uribe. Estábamos destinados a ser bautizados por la violencia, como lo habían sido nuestros padres, y sus padres antes que ellos. Yo aún estaba en la comodidad del vientre de mi madre cuando un Miguel de cuatro años recibió este “bautizo” no deseado. Su madre, Diana Turbay —hija del expresidente Julio César Turbay Ayala y reconocida periodista— fue secuestrada el 30 de agosto de 1990, tras ser engañada para asistir a lo que ella creía sería una entrevista con el sacerdote español Manuel Pérez Martínez, también conocido como El Cura Pérez, de la guerrilla marxista ELN (Ejército de Liberación Nacional).

 La entrevista fue una trampa orquestada por Pablo Escobar. Los supuestos miembros del ELN eran, en realidad, integrantes de Los Priscos, una banda criminal que trabajaba para Escobar. Su objetivo era secuestrar a figuras prominentes, incluidos políticos y periodistas, para presionar al gobierno colombiano a no aprobar un tratado de extradición con Estados Unidos. Turbay y su camarógrafo, Richard Becerra, fueron retenidos en Copacabana, Antioquia. Fue asesinada trágicamente durante un fallido operativo de rescate el 25 de enero de 1991. La vida de Miguel quedaría marcada para siempre.

 Todo colombiano ha tenido un bautismo más personal o distante, pero el dolor siempre es profundo. Este bautismo es nuestro despertar ante el entorno desafortunado que nos rodea. Durante mi infancia, muchas muertes podrían haber servido como mi despertar, de no haber sido demasiado joven para comprenderlas. Ya estaba vivo cuando Diana Turbay murió. Tenía aproximadamente 3 años cuando una enorme bomba colocada por Pablo Escobar explotó en el Centro Comercial 93, dejando 8 muertos y 242 heridos. Aún frecuento este centro comercial, y el evento tuvo un efecto particular en mi madre, que todavía lo recuerda con horror.

 La memoria es un misterio. Tengo muchos recuerdos de cuando tenía tres o cuatro años. Recuerdo un suéter amarillo que usaba con frecuencia. Recuerdo la apertura de McDonald’s en Bogotá en 1995. Pero no tengo memoria de la violencia de esa época. Tenía también cinco años cuando Álvaro Gómez Hurtado, destacado político y periodista colombiano, fue asesinado el 2 de noviembre de 1995 en Bogotá, al salir de la Universidad Sergio Arboleda. Fue uno de los mejores políticos e intelectuales más brillantes de Colombia. A pesar de su amistad con mi abuelo, mi único recuerdo es la imagen de su Mercedes E-Class lleno de balas en la portada del periódico. El evento carecía del shock necesario para el despertar ante la cotidianidad de la violencia que constituiría un bautismo.

 Las condiciones para mi bautismo fueron producto de una larga cadena de circunstancias políticas. Pablo Escobar había sido dado de baja en 1993, el Cartel de Medellín desmantelado, y el Cartel de Cali estaba en declive mientras el Estado recuperaba su dominio. Al mismo tiempo, la Unión Soviética había colapsado en 1991, poniendo fin a décadas de injerencia soviética en Sudamérica. La convergencia de estos eventos creó un vacío que las guerrillas marxistas —ELN y FARC— (al igual que los grupos paramilitares que las combatían,) llenaron rápidamente, heredando el comercio de drogas para reemplazar tanto su perdido patrocinio soviético como el poder antes ostentado por Escobar. Pronto descubrieron, como lo había hecho él, que el comercio de cocaína era mucho más lucrativo que pulir los botines del Komintern mientras se recitaba un Das Kapital mal digerido. Con su recién adquirida riqueza cocalera, pronto amasaron un arsenal impresionante y se convirtieron en ejércitos competentes por primera vez en sus deshonrosas historias.

 Para 1996, yo había entrado al colegio y mis papás me regalaron mi primera pluma estilográfica. Era roja. Recuerdo la campaña política previa a las elecciones de 1998. Mis padres apoyaban al conservador Andrés Pastrana, que prometía combatir a las guerrillas, quienes, impulsadas por el dinero de la droga, estaban convencidas por primera vez de que podían tomar el poder a través de la fuerza. Colombia es, en efecto, la tierra del realismo mágico. Mientras el mundo celebraba el fin del comunismo soviético, e incluso los más pedantes lectores y empleados de Le Monde se veían brevemente obligados a enfrentar los horrores revelados por la apertura momentánea de los archivos soviéticos, los marchitos marxistas de nuestra república bananera solo redoblaron su convicción en un sistema comunista fallido y bárbaro.

 Pastrana ganó. A medida que la guerra y el terrorismo se intensificaban, comencé prever mi inminente bautismo. Un bautismo no es lo mismo que la mera rememoración de un evento impactante. Esta sería la tragedia de un país normal. Los colombianos son bautizados por la violencia y de repente despiertan ante la horrible realidad de la cotidianidad de la violencia perpetua en su país. Nunca podrán volver al tiempo anterior a su conocimiento.

 Eritis sicut Deus, scientes bonum et malum. (Ahora sois como Dios, conociendo el bien y el mal.)

 Y así, mi bautismo llegó a través de una tradición infantil: Halloween. Siempre disfruté Halloween, especialmente porque mi mamá se esmeraba en asegurarse de que tuviéramos disfraces únicos. Nunca me vestí de superhéroe o vaquero; eso habría sido demasiado común para ella. Siempre buscaba algo único y atemporal. Nuestros disfraces eran fantásticos y hechos a la medida, y probablemente despertaron mi amor por los sombreros y la ropa hecha a la medida. Recuerdo mi chaqueta militar y sombrero rojos cuando me vistió de soldadito en el Kinder, y el sombrero bombín hecho a medida para mi disfraz de Charlie Chaplin. Curiosamente no recuerdo mi disfraz de 1998, pero sí el de mi hermano.

 Se disfrazó de Heriberto de la Calle, un personaje satírico creado e interpretado por el humorista y periodista colombiano Jaime Garzón. Heriberto era un humilde “embolador” que representaba a la clase trabajadora baja de Colombia. A pesar de su ocupación aparentemente simple, poseía un intelecto agudo y un carácter irreverente. Cada noche entrevistaba a figuras prominentes mientras lustraba sus zapatos, incluidos políticos, modelos, actores y otras personalidades. A través de sus entrevistas, Heriberto utilizaba el humor y preguntas punzantes para criticar la política colombiana, los problemas sociales y la corrupción. Era un símbolo de la sátira política y la valentía periodística en Colombia, particularmente porque Garzón promovía activamente la paz en tiempos de agitación política. Su personaje le cazó muchos enemigos.

 Tal vez este disfraz quedó en mi memoria porque era bien raro. Dudo que muchos hayan visto a niños de 11 años disfrazados de David Letterman en colegios estadounidenses en 1998, pero ese año mi madre ayudó a mi hermano a engomarse el pelo, ensució su rostro, pintó sus dientes frontales y hasta mandó hacer una caja para lustrar zapatos para completar el disfraz. Mi padre conocía al dueño de CM&, la cadena donde trabajaba Jaime Garzón, y le cosiguió la misma camiseta que Heriberto usaba cada noche. Recuerdo que mis padres dejaron que mi hermano viera el noticiero cada noche para estudiar a Heriberto, enseñándole cómo imitarlo y explicándonos por qué el programa era divertido e importante. También recuerdo a mi hermano sentado en el clóset de mis padres, aprendiendo a lustrar zapatos para completar el acto. Había cierta genialidad en el plan; mi hermano continuaría lustrando los zapatos de mis padres durante nuestra infancia para ganar un poco de dinero. Como siempre, su disfraz fue un éxito. Un punto más para mi infinitamente encantadora madre.

 Unos meses después, durante el verano de 1999, finalmente llegó mi bautismo en la violencia. Era sábado. Recuerdo estar en el club; los adultos a mi alrededor estaban sombríos, envueltos en conversaciones de incredulidad —conversaciones que habían repetido desde sus propios bautismos. De esas que solo suceden en un país donde el dolor es la condena diaria de sus ciudadanos. Esa mañana, el periódico mostraba otro carro con sus ventanas destrozadas por balas. Esta vez no era un Mercedes, sino un Jeep Cherokee, estrellado contra un poste de luz.

Recuerdo preguntar por qué la gente estaba tan alterada. Y recuerdo que me dijeron que la noche anterior habían asesinado a Jaime Garzón. Pregunté quién era. Mi mamá me explicó que era el comediante que interpretaba a Heriberto de la Calle.

 Silencio. “¿Él? ¿El chistoso? ¿Por qué?”

 No estoy seguro de cuál fue la respuesta. ¿Cómo explica una madre a su hijo lo que sus padres tuvieron que explicarle a ella, y así sucesivamente, por generaciones? ¿Cómo se le explica la cotidianeidad de la violencia a un niño? Cualquiera que haya sido su respuesta, el bautismo estaba completo. Uno despierta ante la realidad, y la violencia se vuelve mundana. Esto es algo que pocas personas del primer mundo pueden comprender, especialmente a medida que la barbarie del siglo XX se desvanece en la historia.

 Jaime Garzón fue un héroe. Sé que en Estados Unidos los periodistas se llaman a sí mismos “disidentes”. Pero los riesgos son muy leves en sus países para que esto sea algo más que un masoquista pensamiento ilusorio. Si Rachel Maddow, Stephen Colbert o John Stewart hubieran sido reporteros y satíricos políticos en Colombia, habrían perdido el valor antes de que la cámara comenzara a grabar. Son personas que a duras penas pueden aceptar la cancelación de un contrato o un recorte presupuestal y por lo tanto serían incapaces de sobrevivir en los zapatos de Garzón. Él fue un verdadero disidente. Los riesgos eran enormes, y su humor irreverente incomodaba a los hombres violentos. Su periodismo le costó más que su carrera; le costó la vida.

 Colombia ha pasado por ciclos de paz y violencia, pero los siglos XX y XXI han sido implacables. No me es posible saber qué despertó a mis bisabuelos. ¿Tal vez el brutal asesinato a hachazos del político liberal Rafael Uribe Uribe en los escalones del Capitolio Nacional en 1914? La generación de mi abuela probablemente tuvo su bautismo en abril de 1948, con el asesinato de Jorge Eliécer Gaitán. Su muerte desencadenó El Bogotazo, un día de disturbios que dejó la capital en llamas y marcó el inicio de La Violencia, una guerra civil que mataría a cientos de miles en la siguiente década. Mi abuela y toda la familia huyeron temporalmente a Panamá. Un contemporáneo de mis abuelos, nos contaba que ese día salió corriendo del colegio y en vez de correr a casa se escondió en la despensa de la cocina del Jockey Club durante el Bogotazo. El club y sus ilustres miembros sobrevivieron de manera milagrosa a la destrucción simplemente apagando las luces de los lujosos salones del exclusivo club privado. ¿Fue este su bautismo?

 ¿Y para mis padres? Tal vez fue algún evento tras la violencia general posterior a 1948. O tal vez su bautismo llegó tarde, en el humo y los disparos de noviembre de 1985, cuando el grupo guerrillero M-19 asaltó la Corte Suprema, tomando como rehenes a los jueces más altos del país y exigió que el presidente Belisario Betancur se presentara ante el tribunal para ser juzgado por un conjunto fantasioso de delitos percibidos. Lo que siguió fue una respuesta militar que terminó con el edificio envuelto en llamas, más de un centenar de muertos y once magistrados de la Corte Suprema entre las víctimas. La toma del Palacio de Justicia no fue solo un titular; fue una pesadilla grabada en sus recuerdos. Los videos hoy nos parecen escalofriantes e increíbles.

 En la siguiente década, mis padres serían testigos del descenso del país al abismo—muerte tras muerte—mientras cada año traía a los niños colombianos sus propios desafortunados bautismos. Ya habían vivido el reinado de terror y estupidez de Escobar, y ahora criaban hijos mientras el gobierno perdía rápidamente el control. Salir de la ciudad se volvió una aventura arriesgada, que podía terminar con un secuestro en las mal llamadas pescas milagrosas.

 Éramos apenas niños, y en muchos sentidos tuvimos infancias gratas, pero la violencia y la atrocidad eran simplemente parte de la vida. Cada año traía noticias de algún conocido que había sido secuestrado, asesinado o amenazado. Algunos eventos trascendían lo personal, sumiendo a toda la nación en duelo y nihilismo.

 Los incontables métodos macabramente creativos de la FARC para fabricar bombas eran especialmente grotescos. Muchos recordarán la cobertura del atentado de Chalán en 1996, donde las FARC utilizó un burro-bomba —50 kilos de explosivos disfrazados con plátanos— que mató a 11 policías y al burro. Y quién podría olvidar las imágenes en la portada de la Revista Semana de Elvia Cortés en 2000, víctima de un acto particularmente sádico: una bomba-collar colocada alrededor de su cuello por las FARC. Explotó, matándola a ella y al técnico que intentó desactivarla.

 Todo esto se desarrolló mientras los cínicos líderes de las FARC jugaban con el gobierno, dejándolo plantado en innumerables cumbres de paz, culminando en la ya mítica silla vacía. Andrés Pastrana, entonces presidente, había establecido una zona desmilitarizada en el Caguán en 1998 como precondición para las negociaciones de paz con las FARC. La zona era más grande que Suiza, efectivamente otorgándole al grupo terrorista su propio estado. Pero tras numerosos incidentes —incluyendo una escalada en la violencia, el aumento de secuestros y el secuestro de un avión por las FARC— Pastrana rompió las negociaciones en febrero de 2002. El mismo día que ordenó la reocupación de la zona de distención, recuerdo los dos tanques estacionados en la entrada de mi colegio, donde estudiaban las hijas del presidente.

 Un año después, el 7 de febrero de 2003, estaba en casa viendo televisión en el cuarto de mi mamá. Era viernes. Un fuerte estruendo. No eran fuegos artificiales; el sonido era demasiado profundo y el aire demasiado inquietante. Momentos después, se oyeron las ambulancias. Luego sonó el teléfono. Nuestros temores se confirmaron: era el inconfundible sonido de un carro bomba.

 ¿El objetivo? El Club El Nogal, un club social y empresarial frecuentado por políticos, ejecutivos y diplomáticos extranjeros. Quedaba a pocas cuadras. Muchos amigos cercanos eran miembros, y yo había asistido poco antes a mis primeras “minitecas” allí. ¿Alguno de ellos estaría tomando clases de natación, squash o bolos esa noche? Demasiado pronto para saber.

 Llegaron los periodistas. Las primeras imágenes en televisión mostraban una enorme columna de fuego elevándose desde el parqueadero mientras la gente huía del infierno y los bomberos luchaban por contener las llamas. La bomba, de aproximadamente 200 kilos de nitrato de amonio, gasolina y dinamita, estaba escondida en un Renault Mégane rojo que detonó en el parqueadero del tercer piso. La explosión mató a 36 personas, incluidos seis niños, y dejó más de 160 heridos. Fue el atentado terrorista más mortífero que Colombia había sufrido en más de una década. El lunes siguiente, en el colegio, supimos cuántas personas que conocíamos habían quedado huérfanas, heridas o perdidas para siempre.

 Después de eso, la gente salía menos. Los padres querían a sus adolescentes en casa. Vivir se volvió un riesgo. Muchos emigraron. Pero luego ocurrió algo inesperado. El sucesor de Andrés Pastrana, un político poco conocido llamado Álvaro Uribe Vélez, había asumido la presidencia unos meses antes de la bomba del Nogal con la promesa de combatir a las guerrillas y cambiar la marea después de casi un siglo de violencia. Su plan comenzó a dar resultados, y de 2004 a 2020, los nuevos niños del país serían mucho menos propensos a ser bautizados por la violencia.

 Es inverosímil recordar la esperanza que sentí, cuando alrededor del 2015 se reportaba que las unidades de cuidados intensivos del Hospital Militar de Bogotá estaban vacías por primera vez en su historia. Por primera vez este centro médico se estaba dedicando a procesar ordenes de quimioterapia y no de amputación. Tan solo seis o siete años antes había visitado el hospital con mi colegio para visitar a los soldados que habían sido heridos y mutilados por las inhumanas minas antipersona, el arma predilecta del terrorismo de las guerrillas.

 Dieciséis años de respiro podrían parecer breves para algunos, pero fueron suficientes para que toda una generación creciera sin experimentar su bautismo. De hecho, las cuentas son aún más generosas: cualquier persona nacida en ese período —y que esté entre los seis y los veinticuatro años aproximadamente— probablemente pensaba que los horrores que he descrito eran poco más que meras curiosidades históricas de un país pobre y corrupto, pero relativamente normal. Se equivocaron. Nos equivocamos todos.

 Nuestro gran Nobel de literatura, Gabriel García Márquez, escribió un libro en 1996 que narró de manera desgarradora el secuestro de la madre de Miguel Uribe Turbay: Noticia de un Secuestro. Al final de la introducción al libro Gabo nos dice lo siguiente:

Para todos los protagonistas y colaboradores va mi gratitud eterna por haber hecho posible que no quedara en el olvido este drama bestial, que por desgracia es sólo un episodio del holocausto bíblico en que Colombia se consume desde hace más de veinte años. A todos ellos lo dedico, y con ellos a todos los colombianos—inocentes y culpables—con la esperanza de que nunca más nos suceda este libro.

 Nos ha vuelto a suceder ese libro y de una manera que ojalá fuese solo un mito de los libros fantásticos de Gabo, el libro no solo le sucede a los colombianos, sino a la misma familia. En 1991, cuando Miguel Uribe Turbay tenía apenas cuatro años, su madre fue asesinada por Pablo Escobar. El 11 de agosto de 2025, su propio hijo de cuatro años quedó huérfano de manera inquietantemente similar. Las imágenes del cementerio, donde la esposa de Miguel Uribe Turbay, Claudia Tarazona, carga a su hijo huérfano mientras el féretro desciende a su fosa eterna, son desgarradoras. Igualmente conmueven las imágenes de su padre, Miguel Uribe Londoño, enterrando a su único hijo del mismo modo en que sepultó a su esposa en 1991, mientras otro niño de cuatro años —esta vez su nieto— intentaba comprender lo que sucedía. Qué imagen macabra de una tragedia familiar multigeneracional nos ha dejado los violentos.

 En este momento de duelo nacional, los que nacimos en la era de la violencia en Colombia lloramos una doble pérdida: primero, por un político prometedor arrebatado demasiado pronto, antes de que su potencial político se desplegara; y segundo, por el fin de una frágil ilusión. Los bautismos han regresado, reclamando a las generaciones que una vez disfrutaron de un breve respiro. Para quienes ahora tienen entre seis y veinticuatro años, este es su primer despertar ante el hecho de que nacieron en un país donde la violencia y la muerte no son extraordinarias. Y para quienes recibieron sus bautismos hace tiempo, ahora también despertamos de un sueño, un breve sueño en el que nos atrevimos a creer que la normalidad era posible. Un periodo en el que nos atrevimos a tener esperanza.

 Estamos nuevamente despiertos, comprendiendo que estos “bautismos” de Colombia son una desafortunada herencia. A medida que 2025 se desarrolla, Colombia parece destinada a otro ciclo de sangre y miedo. Los rostros y los nombres pueden haber cambiado. Las guerrillas se han fragmentado, los carteles se han quebrado, los políticos se han reordenado. Pero las corrientes subyacentes de violencia, impunidad y desesperación permanecen intactas. Comparadas con los bautismos de mi infancia, las horribles experiencias de hoy llegarán más rápido, más agudas y a menudo transmitidas por redes para que todos las presencien. La próxima generación heredará este mismo suplicio, y será moldeada y endurecida por él, como yo lo fui, y como lo fue Miguel. La historia sigue adelante, indiferente a la esperanza o la memoria, y este despertar se posa inamovible: estamos, al parecer, condenados a repetir el patrón. Y así vivimos, bautizados una vez más, en el conocimiento del bien y del mal, herederos de un país que repite sus tragedias sin pausa.

 Sin nada más que decir, y mucho que llorar, lo único que queda por decir es: Descansa en paz, Miguel Uribe Turbay, que tu memoria sea una bendición.

Picasso vs. Hegel

This conversation originally happened between Marius de Zayas and Pablo Picasso in 1923 and was first published in The Arts Magazine of New York in the same year. Although there are many translations of it, this one is my own.  My translation is not a direct one, but one made in a way that I believe captures the tone of the original better than the ones I found.

I cannot understand the importance we place on the word research in relation to modern painting. To me, searching means nothing in painting—what matters is finding. No one is interested in following a man who spends his life with his eyes fixed on the ground, searching for a lost wallet that luck may place in his path. But whoever finds something, whatever that might be—whether they were looking for it or not—at least awakens our curiosity, if not our admiration.

Among the many sins of which I am accused, none is as false as the claim that the fundamental goal of my work is a spirit of research. When I paint, I aim to show what I have found, not what I am searching for. In art, intentions are not enough, and as we say in Spanish: obras son amores y no buenas razones [the road to hell is paved with good intentions[1]]. What matters is what we create, not what we intended to create.

 We all know that art is not truth—it is a lie that allows us to see the truth, or at least a truth that it helps us understand. An artist must know how to convince others of the truth within his lies. If, through his work, he merely shows how he has searched and searched for a method to make others believe his lies, he will never accomplish anything.

 The obsession with research has often led artists and their paintings astray in mental gymnastics. This may be modern art’s greatest flaw. The spirit of research has poisoned those who once grasped the clear and decisive essence of modern art, driving them to attempt to paint the invisible—which, by definition, cannot be painted.

 People speak of naturalism as the antithesis of modern painting. I would love to know if anyone has ever seen a work of so-called natural art. Nature and art are, by definition, distinct concepts and therefore cannot be the same. Through art, we express our interpretation of what we believe nature to be. Velázquez left us his impression of the people of his time—who were, without a doubt, different from how he painted them. Yet we cannot conceive of Philip IV in any way other than how Velázquez depicted him. Rubens painted the same king, yet in his rendition, he appears as a completely different person. We trust Velázquez’s version because its greater force makes it more convincing.

 From the earliest painters—those primitive peoples whose works differ vastly from nature—to artists who believed they were depicting nature as it truly is, such as David, Ingres, and even Bouguereau, art has always been art, not nature. From the perspective of art, there is no distinction between concrete and abstract forms—only forms that create more or less convincing lies. It is indisputable that such lies are necessary for our minds, for through them we shape our aesthetic perspective of life.

 Cubism is no different from other schools of painting. The same principles and elements are shared by them all. The fact that cubism has been misunderstood for so long or that so many see nothing in it today means nothing. I cannot read in English; a book in that language is blank to me, but that does not mean the English language does not exist. And who should I blame but myself for not understanding something of which I comprehend nothing? I also often hear the word evolution. I am frequently asked to explain the evolution of my painting. To me, there is no past or future in art. If a work of art cannot endure forever in the present, it should be disregarded. Greek, Egyptian, or the art of great painters from other times is not the art of the past; it may be more alive now than in any other era. Art does not evolve on its own; ideas change, and with them, so do expressive forms. When I hear people speak of an artist’s evolution, it seems to me that they imagine him trapped between two parallel mirrors, each reflecting his image an infinite number of times. They consider the successive images in one mirror as the artist’s past and those in the other mirror as his future, while his real image is the artist’s present. Yet, it never occurs to them that they are all the same image, just in different planes.

 Variation does not mean evolution. If an artist varies his method of expression, it only means that he has changed his mode of thinking, and this change can lead to either improvement or regression.

 The various techniques I have employed in my art should not be seen as evolution or as stepping stones toward some unknown ideal in painting. Everything I have done in my life has been for the present, with a strong hope that it will always remain in the present. I have never thought about the spirit of research. When I have found something to express, I have done so without considering the past or the future. I do not believe I have used fundamentally different elements in my many approaches to painting.

 If the subjects I wished to express suggested different methods, I never hesitated to adopt them. I have never conducted tests or experiments; whenever I have had something to say, I have done so in the modality I felt was most appropriate. Different motives require different methods of expression. This does not imply evolution or progress but rather an adaptation of the idea one wishes to express and the methods of said expression. There are periods in the chronology of art history that are more positive and complete than others. This means there are epochs with better artists than others. If art history could be represented graphically on a chart, like the ones used by nurses to record a patient's temperature changes, one would see the same mountainous profile, proving that there is no upward trajectory in art, but rather ups and downs that can occur at any moment. The same is true for the works of an individual artist.

 Many believe that cubism is an art of transition, an experiment that will lead to many results. Those who believe this have misunderstood it. Cubism is neither seed nor fetus; it is an art that fundamentally deals with shapes. And when it creates a shape, that shape takes on its own life. A mineral substance with a geometric form does not adopt that shape with a transitory purpose; rather, it will continue being what it is and preserve its own form. If we applied the laws of evolution and transformation to art, we would have to admit that all art is transitory. Contrary to this, art does not partake in such philosophical absolutisms. If cubism is a transitional art, I am convinced that the only thing it will lead to is another type of cubism.

 In the plight to simplify interpretations, cubism has been linked to mathematics, trigonometry, chemistry, psychoanalysis, music, and many other things. All of this has been pure fiction, if not nonsense, which has only brought bad results and, with its theories, obscured people’s vision.

Cubism has stayed within the limits and limitations of painting, never pretending to go beyond them. In cubism, drawing, composition, and color are practiced with the same spirit and the same methods that other schools understand and practice. It may be that our subjects are different, as we have introduced objects and shapes into paintings that were previously ignored. We have opened the eyes and minds of those around us.

 We give shape and color all their individual meaning, as much as we are able; within our subjects, we find the joy of discovery and the pleasure of the unexpected. Our subject is, in and of itself, a strong source of interest. However, why explain what we do if all it takes to understand it is a willingness to see?

-Pablo Picasso, 1923

[1] The original translation makes little sense in English, but the expression the road to hell is paved with good intentions is the most in the spirit of the original. This is an addition an not in the original interview.

You Are What You Eat: the importance of cultural input for meaningful interpretation

Not long ago, a close friend was preparing for an orchestral audition. After he walked me through his impressive technical preparations, I offered some (naturally unsolicited) advice. I suggested he be mindful not to overlook cultural input at this crucial moment. This piece of advice came from my own experiences as a performer and creator. I’ve long loved the adage, “You are what you eat.” Despite its insulting undertone and its assault on the sensual pleasures that only rich cuisine can provide, this blend of ideas makes it an appealing maxim for describing another kind of dietary practice: cultural consumption.

 The mind, like the body, requires the appropriate diet for the tasks we face during different parts of our creative and emotional toils. This is especially true for those engaged in interpretative work. I recall a time when I played the Haydn Trumpet Concerto for Gabrielle Cassone, an expert in period performance, as part of my audition preparations. After hearing me play, he simply asked, “How much Mozart and Haydn are you listening to these days?” Despite my deep love for these composers, I realized I hadn’t been particularly immersed in their works in those weeks. Instead of assigning long tones or exercises, he simply asked me to spend the week with my favorite recordings of works by Classical-period composers, taking special care to avoid the Haydn and Hummel trumpet concertos and instead focus on works for other instruments.

 I set out on this task. Avoiding trumpet works from the Classical period was exceedingly easy, given the truly limited and uninspiring repertoire for the instrument from that era. A week later, after immersing myself in Clementi, Haydn string quartets, and Mozart piano sonatas and operas, I played the Haydn Trumpet Concerto for Cassone once more. The improvement was striking, despite having spent little time practicing the piece itself in the interim. This experience taught me the crucial relationship between the quality of cultural input and the production of worthwhile cultural output.

 As interpreters, we are tasked with bringing entire worlds to life. This responsibility can only be shouldered if we can ourselves access the worlds we intend to conjure into the physical domain. This praxis was embodied by Mahler’s “world-containing” creations or the concept of Gesamtkunstwerk attributed to Wagner. Gesamtkunstwerk is a German term meaning "total work of art." It refers to creations that integrate multiple art forms—such as music, visual art, drama, and design—into a unified and harmonious whole. This concept emphasizes works that transcend pure technique in any single direction, focusing instead on the complete artistic expression achieved by synthesizing all elements. The enduring power of artworks that embed profound meaning and synthesize expansive ideas aligns with my belief that people engage with cultural events not merely for escapism, but in search of counterworlds—places that imbue life with meaning and offer a spiritual outlet for the complexities of the human condition.

 While the technical aspects of music education in the 21st century have vastly outpaced those of any previous era, most programs have overlooked the importance of cultural consumption for those pursuing a career in the arts. The result is the production of incredibly capable musicians with very poor interpretative skills. Pursuing a career in the high arts can sometimes lead to losing sight of the responsibility we bear toward the art itself and the audiences it is meant to nurture.

 How can training to become active agents in the arts lead us to such unforgivable amnesia? How can we so easily forget our roles as guardians and promoters of such immense cultural treasures? These are questions for a much longer discussion, but the cost of forgetting this duty is the creation of highly technical yet characterless art, which fails to inspire audiences.

 I bring up the unique responsibility that interpreters must always keep in mind toward their audiences because we are, ultimately, their servants. Music is a strictly interpretative art form. Unlike plastic arts, film, or literature, audiences cannot access it without interpreters bringing the sounds into existence. Even in recordings, interpreters serve as conduits and narrators of the score they perform. As middlemen to a composer’s creations, interpreters must have the capacity to understand a creator’s intent and psyche to bring the best possible outcome to voracious audiences.

 This undertaking is, in many ways, ultimately impossible. Part psychologist, part historian, archaeologist, and spiritual guide, performers must cultivate a vibrant internal world to even begin to understand and channel the intent and genius of composers who are, more often than not, their intellectual superiors. Despite the futility of fully embodying the intent behind most compositions, the depth of commitment to this intellectual pursuit is what defines the strength of a given interpretation.

 We cannot truly know how a Shakespeare sonnet might have sounded in Elizabethan England or from his mouth, but we recognize Laurence Olivier as one of the Bard’s finest interpreters because of his deep study of Shakespeare’s work and the relish with which he delivered the text. Similarly, we can draw intellectual parallels between interpreter and composer: Karajan and Strauss, Bernstein and Mahler, Böhm or Klemperer and Beethoven, or Glenn Gould and Bach.

 In each of the cases mentioned above, we see interpreters who took special care to enrich their output with constant and insatiable input. I often emphasize the importance of building one’s artistic practice on solid foundations. No man is an island—especially for those who aspire to find their place in the pantheon of great artists. In the past, I have described this constant dialogue with our cultural past as a necessary step in creating anything worthwhile. My favorite artists have, by their own admission, been almost haunted by the achievements of their predecessors. Yet, this process is less ethereal than it might seem. Ultimately, it results from persistently consuming vast amounts of culture in pursuit of that dialogue.

 The current cultural and intellectual parochialism of so many interpreters is not entirely their fault. As I mentioned, even the best music schools do a remedial job of exposing students to the vast depth of the Western canon. I, too, received what can best be described as a superficial cultural education during my time at music school. The music history seminars felt akin to the dull textbooks designed for American high schools in Texas or the simplistic bibles drafted for children attending Sunday School at their local reform church. (You all know the ones I’m talking about, with lions bashfully smiling at their natural prey as they board Noah’s arc.)

 When studying medieval chant, for example, rather than engaging with the texts of medieval philosophers such as Saint Augustine or Aquinas, we were presented with simplistic platitudes about the Church’s dominance in cultural creation and the demonization of the tritone. Similarly, when learning about the secularization of culture during the Renaissance, we were not required to read Machiavelli, Thomas More, Dante, or Erasmus—the philosophical architects of these processes. Instead, we were given a cursory explanation that it was a period of vague classical revival of a Greco-Roman culture we also did not study in any meaningful way. We similarly did not read any works by Hume, Locke, or Montesquieu to inform us about the Enlightenment period in which Mozart and Haydn composed, nor did we read Schiller despite his direct connection to Beethoven. We also ignored Kant, Nietzsche, Hegel, and all the other thinkers who were so crucial to the composers of the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

 As if the poverty of our philosophical education weren’t enough, most artists also received a poor education in the artists who defined each of these epochs. I was never assigned readings of Shakespeare when studying the operatic settings of his plays by Rossini and Verdi (Othello, Falstaff, and Macbeth). Nor was I assigned Spenser when learning about Purcell’s Faerie Queene. Nor did professors read from Wilde when studying Strauss’s operatic version of Salomé. It goes without saying that there was no study of Greco-Roman or Norse mythology, which are so prevalent in classical music.

 Music schools, and art schools more broadly, have largely become centers for practical study at best. Even when a school is considered exceptionally strong academically, its primary success often lies in instilling foundational instrumental and ear-training techniques, as exemplified by institutions like Eastman, Juilliard, Colburn, or Rice. However, many schools have even abdicated this fundamental responsibility. In pursuit of higher graduation rates, they have watered down their training programs and catered to a lethargic student body’s preference for easier courses and more self-directed learning. I have seen emerging curricula, even in my own schools, that do away with basic training. Students have managed to convince administrators and professors alike that scale tests, performance juries, or foundational music theory training are too onerous and ultimately irrelevant to their education. How foolish is that? The result is that even in the best schools, young musicians are being trained to win auditions mechanically but are left completely devoid of the contextual knowledge necessary to ground their purpose and reason for existing.

 Most instrumentalists I know regard their instrumental instructors as their most important mentors. Very few of them can name any other professors who fundamentally shaped their artistry or cultural education. While there’s nothing inherently wrong with this, it creates a tendency among interpreters to simply replicate what they learned from their instrumental teachers or what they absorbed from their favorite recordings. This approach is not entirely problematic, but it often shifts the focus away from the composer’s intent. Instead, performers tend to prioritize the interpretations of past performers—who themselves may have had cultural educations of varying quality. In other words, when some of these interpreters perform Mahler, for example, they are less concerned with Mahler’s rich cultural world or how he might have wanted his music to sound and are more focused on emulating their favorite New York Philharmonic or Chicago Symphony recording.

Music education is not the only discipline suffering from academia’s abdication of duty. When my grandfather studied classics and linguistics at Colombia’s Jesuit Universidad Javeriana, he was expected to learn Latin, Greek, and French to read texts in their original languages. This was not unique to the education of a Latin American nation; it was common practice, especially in the world’s most highly regarded universities. I, therefore, take it as a profound sign of decay in educational quality that Princeton University, once lauded as one of the most important centers of learning in the Western world, decided in 2021 to do away with the requirement for Latin and Greek in its Classics department.

 The lion's share of the blame for the appalling cultural parochialism afflicting so many interpreters and creators lies with academic institutions obsessed with credentialism. These institutions often employ faculty who lack the basic intellectual curiosity that should guide an artistic education. These professors are stuck in loops of what Americans call “inside baseball” or “shop talk.” These terms describe discussions or details so specialized they are only meaningful to a small, well-informed group, often unintelligible or uninteresting to those outside the field.

 Cultural production centers have become hubs for this type of insular discourse. This hyper-specialization, which has infected academia at large, promotes siloed expertise and undermines general educational objectives. While such specialization has bolstered practical fields like engineering, mathematics, and medicine, it proves counterproductive in the realm of liberal and fine arts education.

 While specializing in the effects of a specific type of cancer can be highly beneficial for the medical field, endless discussions about half-cadences or identitarian platitudes do little to foster a broad understanding of culture and lead to narrow, contextless instruction. In some ways, this disparity between practical fields and the arts stems from the reality that artistic expression is not a hard science and that its practicality is more closely tied to spirituality than to anything else. Perhaps the distinction also lies in the fact that practical fields do not depend on audience buy-in. (As a side note, I have always found something Freudian in the pathology that makes scientists describe their finest achievements as “elevating something to an art form,” while artists refer to their own work as having something “down to a science.”)

 A bridge can be built without consulting the populace’s opinion on mathematics, and disease can be treated without the patient understanding the scientific underpinnings of a given treatment. Specialization is therefore rewarded, as innovations within these sectors—and the health of their institutions—are not dependent on maintaining an expansive knowledge relationship with their consumer base.

 Such is not the case for cultural production. Artists survive through a social contract with their audiences, existing in a symbiotic—sometimes parasitic—relationship that is both difficult to define and challenging to sustain. Although an audience member does not need to be able to produce a symphony himself, his keen interest and willingness to invest time in attending the symphony are basic requirements for the event to take place. Artistic institutions do not survive and thrive primarily on innovation and research but on their ability to provide cultural services effectively to audiences they must not only understand but also deeply respect and value. Part of this involves producing concerts that elevate an audience in meaningful ways. This is only achievable if an interpreter brings something special to a given production. It is not enough for an orchestra to play the notes on the page; they must bring the score to life with all its historical, spiritual, and contextual power. If an art school’s training fails to equip its students to understand and access these inputs, the output will always be polished but insipid. Audiences will, in turn, begin to view cultural events as superfluous luxuries and niceties rather than what they truly are: fundamental connections to our humanity, our collective pasts, and our deep social roots.

 Despite the responsibility academic institutions bear for the decline of broad education for artists and the erosion of the social contract between artists and audiences, receiving a poor cultural education is no excuse for a lack of personal curiosity, particularly in the 21st century. While we live in a world of distractions—and there is no shortage of doomsayers convinced that no one will ever read a book again because they lack the mental strength to pry themselves away from their phones—we also live in a time where anyone is just a Google search away from any great painting, a Spotify search away from virtually every work of music, a YouTube search away from most films worth watching, and, for the measly cost of an eReader, has access to enough free literary classics to rival the finest private libraries of any monarch or intellectual.

 Screen addiction is real, but more often than not, it serves as an excuse for a profound lack of curiosity. Among artists, such a condition is unacceptable. One is left to conclude that many of those currently enjoying careers in the arts are, in fact, not all that interested in it. Considering the financial realities of creative fields, this also suggests that many of these individuals are deeply impractical.

 As I mentioned earlier, I believe that good creators are, more often than not, encyclopedically reverent of the past and insatiable in their consumption of its creations. I recognize that this might sound lofty, but at its core, it simply means that great professionals in any discipline are fans of their discipline. I sometimes question whether many artists are truly fans of their medium. It has now been several years since December became a deeply revealing time for me. Since 2016, Spotify has been sharing listening data through their Wrapped marketing initiative. Thanks to Wrapped, I get a yearly, statistical glimpse behind people’s once very private listening habits—habits they now so readily and willingly share with the world. Although most of my immediate artistic circle is made up of classical composers and performers, when they post their Spotify top 5, very few of them can boast of having a classical work or composer among the list. The untainted nature of this exercise is fascinating. These lists reflect what people actually gravitate toward rather than what they think or claim to be engaged with.

 If your listening habits and other cultural consumption seem simplistic… they probably are. We are all allowed our guilty pleasures. While I used to jog to Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty, even I will admit that Bad Bunny can be a better companion for exercising—and is, in every way, Brahms’s superior when it comes to lighting up a wedding dance floor. Regardless of its absurd cultural caché, I do not subscribe to the postmodern relativism that convinces some people that Beyoncé is as good as Beethoven, Bach, Duke Ellington, or Mahler, or that Paulo Coelho or Dan Brown can match García Márquez, Shakespeare, Cervantes, or Keats. I find the mental gymnastics required to make such thoughtless claims entirely unconvincing and count myself fortunate to lack the basic fear that paralyzes so many trained artists—the fear of being labeled elitist.

 My critique is not directed at eclectic or diverse cultural consumption. As interpreters and creators, we stand to benefit immensely from exploring worlds beyond our own—whether that means discovering unfamiliar art forms, engaging with distant cultural traditions, or simply stepping outside the confines of our comfort zones. Such exploration can inspire fresh ideas and broaden our creative perspectives. However, there is a big difference between cultivating a truly expansive and discerning cultural palate and settling for unsophisticated tastes masquerading as diversity.

 On one end of the spectrum are individuals whose cultural toolbelts are richly stocked—they have immersed themselves in the canon of their discipline while eagerly drawing from the offerings of others. Their praxis reflects a deep reverence for the past and an insatiable curiosity for the present. On the other end are those with only a single tool at their disposal, often the most fashionable or familiar one, wielded repeatedly without much thought for its limitations. While the latter may find temporary relevance, this lack of depth betrays a disinterest in the larger conversation their medium is part of. In an age where we are inundated with information and surrounded by extraordinary access to art, music, and literature, such parochialism is, quite frankly, a choice—a choice to disengage from the richness of what came before and what exists beyond.

 The interpreters and creators who, like sponges, absorb everything around them, only to filter and transform it into something wholly unique are the ones humanity values and honors. On the other end, we find those who lack both depth and breadth in their artistic diets, whose engagement is superficial at best and whose output rarely transcends mediocrity.

 This brings us back to the question of responsibility: not only to the audiences who rely on interpreters to access the intangible riches of our artistic heritage but also to the art itself, which deserves to be represented with integrity and depth. As cultural gatekeepers, interpreters must guard against the erosion of meaning in their work by committing to ongoing exploration, education, and dialogue with the great works and minds of the past. To do so requires more than mere technical competence; it demands a lifetime of curiosity and an unrelenting desire to learn and grow.

 So, where do we go from here? How do we—as individuals and as a collective—combat this alarming trend of cultural and intellectual parochialism? Part of the answer lies in reclaiming the spirit of interdisciplinary learning and curiosity that once defined a well-rounded education in the arts. This means insisting on the integration of literature, philosophy, visual art, and history into the curricula of conservatories and arts programs, not as ancillary components but as foundational elements of artistic training. We must recognize that the value of academic credentials only holds weight if these institutions continue to provide meaningful education. The sooner universities and conservatories realize that their diplomas don’t possess the mystical power to turn any chump into a professor, the sooner they’ll understand what we all know: you can’t fix ignorance with a diploma, and a fool with a degree is still a fool.

 Barring any changes in academia, artists must also take the initiative to seek this kind of education despite it. As Mark Twain wisely said, “I have never let my schooling interfere with my education.” Historians like Jan Swafford, Joseph Horowitz, and Sir John Eliot Gardiner, among others, have produced a considerable number of books that can give any interpreter a real taste of the worlds they must inhabit daily, as well as the historical concerns of our finest composers. We must hold ourselves accountable as practitioners, continuously seeking out opportunities to expand our own cultural horizons. We should celebrate the richness of our artistic traditions while also challenging ourselves to venture beyond the familiar. This is not simply an academic exercise—it is an act of love and devotion to the art forms we hold dear. By immersing ourselves in the great works of the past and remaining open to the new and unfamiliar, we not only honor the legacy of our predecessors but also equip ourselves to create meaningful and lasting contributions to the cultural landscape. We must, in short, become the most passionate fans of the culture we want others to be excited by. True fandom can be infectious and is the catalyst for lasting community building.

 Ultimately, this journey is as much about humility as it is about ambition. It requires us to recognize the limits of our own knowledge and to approach the creative process with a sense of reverence and wonder. It asks us to embrace the paradox of being both creators and servants, of shaping the future while remaining deeply rooted in the past. It reminds us that the greatest art—whether in music, literature, or any other discipline—is born not from isolation but from a profound and ongoing conversation with the world around us.

 As we wrap this up, my mind wanders back to my friend and his audition preparations. When I suggested he be mindful of his cultural diet, I wasn’t simply offering advice about listening to more Mozart or exploring the nuances of Classical-period style. I was reminding him—and, by extension, myself—of the deeper truth that underpins all artistic endeavors: that the quality of what we create is inextricably linked to the quality of what we consume. To create art that resonates, inspires, and endures, we must first nurture ourselves with the richness of the world’s cultural offerings. Only then can we hope to fulfill our responsibility as interpreters, creators, and custodians of the human spirit.

Artificial Intelligence and Creative Destruction in the Creative Economy: are you a craftsman or an artist?

 Everybody does have a book in them, but in most cases that's where it should stay.

-Christopher Hitchens

 Imagine finding yourself in a situation where, within just a few years, a sudden technological advancement renders large parts of your productivity unnecessary. Tasks people once paid you for—where you held special expertise—are now somehow accessible to everyone, especially your employer. What would you do next? Would you switch professions? Would you try to convince your employer to set aside the advantages of these new technologies out of loyalty? Or would you attempt to leverage your skills and knowledge to harness the new technology in your favor?

 These are just a few of the questions now haunting many in the creative industries due to the rise of Artificial Intelligence, especially with the viability of programs using Large Language Models. Only a few years ago, artists and administrators watched discussions about the looming automation of the trucking industry and felt secure, believing their white-collar fields were safe from major disruptions. Now, however, we see that white-collar jobs are more vulnerable to change within the coming decade.

 In the past, I’ve discussed how these technologies are already impacting Hollywood, affecting everyone from writers and editors to musicians and producers. To avoid rehashing previous points, this time, we will focus on what I consider some of the most misguided arguments and solutions my peers are suggesting for this looming crisis. Most arguments I’ve heard on this subject fall into two main categories. The first is a defense of the industry from a humanistic perspective: “Machines cannot replace humans in the creative industry because they lack the fundamental humanity that makes creative work worth doing and admiring.” I find this line of argumentation worth exploring despite its many pitfalls. The second defense, which I find entirely unpersuasive, is rooted in labor-union protections: "Through unions, we will safeguard how this work is done and keep technological advancements out of the creative industries altogether." Let us address these in reverse order.

 The economic principle of Creative Destruction is central to my view on the futility of labor organizations as a defense against new technologies. Austrian economist Joseph Schumpeter introduced this economic concept, describing how innovation and technological progress drive economic growth by replacing outdated industries, products, or methods with newer, more efficient ones. This process often fuels significant economic development, but it also involves the decline or displacement of existing businesses, jobs, and technologies as new ones emerge.

 Typically, creative destruction begins when new technologies, products, or business models arise, often driven by entrepreneurs or technological breakthroughs. These innovations disrupt established markets, making older methods less profitable or obsolete. While some industries and jobs may be lost in this process, new ones often emerge, spurring overall economic growth. Displaced workers find roles in these new industries or in unrelated sectors that benefit from increased productivity.

 Through the processes of Creative Destruction, every industry remains in a constant state of flux, echoing the Greek philosopher Heraclitus’s assertion, Panta Rhei (“Everything flows”). The process is unimaginably painful to the many individuals who face these cycles of innovation and obsolescence. But it is worth re-iterating that in the long run, creative destruction leads to higher productivity and economic growth, which can improve the standard of living.

 AI technologies have triggered a sharp moment of creative destruction within creative industries, one that will likely reshape the landscape of creative work sooner than we anticipate. It’s only natural that workers caught in such a whirlwind would seek to stop the storm in hopes of preventing the process altogether. Many in the creative economy with union-oriented views seem convinced that regulating labor will compel employers to overlook the productivity benefits that new technologies bring. However, exploring the history of industries that have fallen prey to similar cycles has convinced me that the notion of shielding jobs in creative industries from AI replacement through labor solidarity, union rules, or legal measures is a fantasy. At best, these efforts typically delay the impact of new technologies for a few decades; at worst, they dull survival instincts, allowing work to gradually decline and eventually be lost entirely to more competitive cities or markets.

 Many of us struggle to accept painful market realities when they impact things we love. This discomfort often makes us susceptible to denialism. In such cases, I find it extremely helpful to examine industries outside our own, where a detached analysis feels less like a betrayal and more like an academic exercise. With that in mind, let’s talk about elevators.

 Elevators are a technical innovation that many rarely think about, yet the development of modern metropolises would be unimaginable without them. The early growth of New York City, in particular, is closely tied to the creation of viable elevators. Early elevators, however, were not known for their safety and required trained engineers to operate. Due to the dangers inherent in operating elevators, workers in the 1920s organized labor unions to strike and demand higher wages and protections from building owners who allowed tenants to operate this machinery. Since elevator operators could shut down New York during a strike, Local 32B soon became one of the most powerful labor unions in the city. They enjoyed this power until the 1950s. Thanks to the increased safety features that elevator companies developed over decades to protect elevator operators, they eventually found a way to automate elevators altogether. From the 1950’s onward, through a process of Creative Destruction, the Otis elevator company made elevator operators obsolete.

 As this process unfolded, Local 32B continued to strike in an effort to halt the spread of this new technology. The success of these strikes, which once struck fear into the hearts of New York building owners, began to wane. Initially, the union was able to prevent buildings from adopting automated elevators, as employing an elevator technician remained cheaper than investing in automation. However, as the union pushed for increasingly larger financial benefits from employers, they eventually priced themselves out of the fight against automation. Throughout this gradual decline, organized labor assured its dwindling beneficiaries that they had achieved significant victories for their movement. Yet, ultimately, they succumbed to a technology that proved not only more cost-effective but also safer and more reliable.

 This case is not unique; we can all think of labor roles that once seemed essential to the functioning of society, now relegated to history or preserved only as novelties. Off the top of my head, I can think of carriage drivers, horseshoe makers, horse shit shovelers, stiff shirt collar launderers, chimney sweeps, music copyists, music tape cutters, photo film producers like the once titanic Eastman Kodak, top hat manufacturers, trained typists…I’m out of breath.

 Union-led efforts to curb competition are constrained by the realities of competitive markets. In truth, union contract negotiations are only indefinitely effective in uncontested markets. When technological advancements or alternative markets arise for a good or service, the provider with the least efficient and most costly offer will inevitably fail. Despite the initial surge of adrenaline union members feel each time they secure larger contracts in shrinking industries, they often fail to recognize that these improved contracts typically accelerate the contraction already underway.

 I trust that this exploration of another industry has amply explained why I remain unconvinced by arguments suggesting that, through unions and protections, workers in the creative economy can safeguard their methods and keep technological advancements entirely out of the creative industries.

 However, despite its many pitfalls, another argument holds more weight when discussing the survival of work in the creative economy: machines cannot replace humans in the creative industry because they lack the fundamental humanity that makes creative work worth doing and admiring. I’m generally sympathetic to this view, with some not-insignificant caveats.

 My views on machine-generated art generally align with those of music historian Jan Swafford. In an article for Van Magazine, Swafford reviewed a Beethoven symphony generated by a large language model program. He considered the entire endeavor little more than a charming party trick—interesting on its own terms but lacking the enduring quality typically found in Beethoven’s work. He noted that "Artificial intelligence can mimic art, but it can't be expressive at it because, other than the definition of the word, it doesn't know what expressive is.” Like Swafford, I question the interest society will find in art that lacks humanity, as its main objective is to connect us to our innermost psyche.

 My conviction in this viewpoint is deeply rooted, strengthened by the fact that artistic and cultural endeavors seem most vital during humanity’s darkest moments. Musicians know, for instance, that Messiaen composed his Quatuor pour la fin du temps (Quartet for the End of Time) in 1941 while imprisoned in a Nazi concentration camp. Similarly, Alan Seeger wrote his seminal poem I Have a Rendezvous with Death the night before he lost his life during the deadly Somme Offensive in World War I. Oscar Wilde’s most profound analysis of mankind is found in De Profundis, written during his imprisonment and after his ostracism. These feats of introspection emerged in times when art might seem an absurd luxury or distraction. Yet, the more one reads about history’s depravities, the more one realizes that such examples are not anomalies: creators and audience members alike turn to art to connect with their humanity.

 Holocaust historian Saul Friedländer profoundly illustrates the importance of cultural expression amid extermination in his two-part work Nazi Germany and the Jews. I’d like to highlight the following passages from the second volume, The Years of Extermination:

“…Reich-Ranicki, fluent in German, soon found a position as chief of the ‘Translation and Correspondence Bureau.’

 His comments regarding the avid attendance at the symphony concerts shed further light on what could be surmised about cultural life in the ghetto in general. ‘It was not defiance that brought the hungry and the retched into the concert halls, but a longing for solace and elevation—however hackneyed these words, they are appropriate. Those who were ceaselessly fearing for their lives, those who were vegetating in the ghetto, were seeking shelter and refuge for an hour or two, searching for some form of security and perhaps even happiness. They needed a counter-world.” (pg. 117)

 And this one from the chroniclers at the ghetto in Litzmannstadt:

“Though life weighs heavily upon the people in the ghetto, they refuse to do without cultural life altogether. The closing of the House of Culture has deprived the ghetto of the last vestiges of public cultural life. But with his tenacity and vitality, the ghetto dwellers, hardened by countless misfortunes, always seeks new ways to sate his hunger for something of cultural value. The need for music is especially intense, and small centers for the cultivation of music have sprung up over time; to be sure, only for a certain upper stratum. Sometimes it is professional musicians, sometimes amateurs who perform for an intimate group of invited guests. Chamber music is played, and there is singing. Likewise, small, family-like circles form in order to provide spiritual nourishment on a modest level. Poets and prose writers read from their own works. The classics and more recent works of world literature are recited. Thus does the ghetto salvage something of its former spiritual life.” (Pg. 601)

 The fact that art appears in the darkest hours convinces me that humanity’s unique need for art stems from the need to connect us to the spirituality we often require. As the aforementioned victim of the Holocaust put it, we often need a counterworld. I question whether we would be interested in exploring worlds created by language models that cannot possibly understand the human condition beyond linguistics.

 I wish we could leave it here and say, “case closed:” creative destruction cannot harm the creative economy because we are shielded by humanity’s need for art made by people, not machines, which cannot tap into the human psyche. But things are not that easy. Not all cultural products are equal in cultural value, and not every player in the creative economy is an artist providing spiritual or cultural nourishment.

 Broadly speaking, the 21st century has been marked by the uncertainties unique to postmodern thinking. The relativization of language and an ethos of anti-elitism have their benefits, but they have rendered most discussions about the quality of art nearly impossible. Most people I speak with who work in the creative economy tend to shy away from distinguishing not only between what they might consider good or bad art but also between culture and entertainment. Naturally, if these subjects are taboo among those working in the arts, discussion about what is and isn’t art becomes verboten. It is a curious phenomenon that we no longer discuss these subjects openly and at length, considering that until the mid-20th century, they were the main preoccupation of most philosophical writing on aesthetics, from Plato to T.S. Eliot.

 The American philosopher Allan Bloom lamented this trend in his book The Closing of the American Mind. His cultural pessimism led him to believe that the definition of creativity had been eroded to the point of cheapening its meaning. To him, there was a clear distinction between creativity and artistically-adjacent activities. This passage is of particular interest:

 “Of course the use of words like ‘creativity’ and ‘personality’ does not mean that those who use them understand the thought that made their use necessary, let alone agree with it. The language has been trivialized. Words that were meant to describe and encourage Beethoven and Goethe are now applied to every schoolchild. It is in the nature of democracy to deny no one access to good things. If those things are really not accessible to all, then the tendency is to deny the fact—simply to proclaim, for example, that what is not art is art. There is in American society a mad rush to distinguish oneself, and, as soon as something has been accepted as distinguishing, to package it in such a way that everyone can feel included. Creativity and personality were intended to be terms of distinction. They were, as a matter of fact, intended to be the distinctions appropriate to egalitarian society, in which all distinction is threatened. The leveling of these distinctions through familiarity merely encourages self-satisfaction. Now that they belong to everyone, they can be said to mean nothing, both in common parlance and in the social science disciplines that use them as ‘concepts.’ They have no specific content, are a kind of opiate of the masses. They do, however, provide a focus for all the dissatisfactions that any life anywhere and at any time provides, particularly those fostered in a democratic society. Creativity and personality take the place of older words like virtue, industry, rationality and character, affect our judgments, provide us with educational goals. They are the bourgeois’ way of not being bourgeois. Hence they are sources of snobbishness and pretentiousness alien to our real virtues. We have a lot of good engineers but very few good artists. All the honor, however, goes to the latter, or rather, one should say, those who stand in for the latter in the eyes of the many. The real artists don’t need this kind of support and are instead weakened by it. The money-maker is not the most appetizing personality, but he is far preferable to the intellectual phony.” (Part 2, Creativity, pg. 183)

 I bring up this line of thinking to define the limits of what kinds of art humanity will continue to find spiritually nurturing. As I’ve said, I truly believe that AI-generated creations lack the fundamental humanity that makes creative work worth doing and admiring. But not all creative work is art and not all jobs in the creative economy are focused on producing the kind of artistic products that nurture the soul and serve the purpose of emotional introspection.

 Coca-Cola ads, incidental music for television, or jingles can indeed be beautiful, but they serve as conduits for other media. Their purpose is fundamentally different from works intended to satisfy humanity’s need for beauty and introspection. To pretend these creations are categorically identical is not only absurd but also indicative of an erosion of distinction often led by craftsmen in denial of their irrelevance in the artistic arena.

 Setting aside the complicated distinction between art and entertainment, I want to focus solely on the difference between craftsmanship and artistry. The characteristics that separate a good craftsman from an artist are difficult to define, but to borrow from Justice Stewart, who famously said about pornography, "I shall not today attempt further to define the kinds of material I understand to be embraced within that shorthand description, but I know it when I see it," I find that the difference is something you recognize instinctively when it presents itself. Every great artist is a good craftsman, but not every craftsman is an artist. Likewise, not every creative expression holds the same weight as another.

 During a conversation about the importance of keeping our self-importance as freelancers in check, Thomas Stevens shared a story that highlights what we’ve been discussing. He and Malcolm McNab were once called to an LA studio to record Vivaldi’s famous double trumpet concerto. Constrained by a busy schedule balancing studio work and his role as principal trumpet of the Los Angeles Philharmonic, Stevens agreed to the session on the condition that he would be allowed to park outside the soundstage.

 As I recall, Stevens and McNab made tremendous efforts to deliver a remarkable rendition of the concerto, drawing on their expertise and deep knowledge of Baroque music. When the session concluded, Stevens packed up, only to discover—much to his dismay—that his car had been towed, while McNab’s remained untouched. I wonder if Scorsese ever faced such indignities.

 The real revelation, however, came when the movie All the President’s Men, starring Dustin Hoffman, premiered. Despite their great artistry and care, the music they had so painstakingly rendered was used merely as background for a typewriter scene. Perhaps the gig was worth the paycheck, but the artistic investment was hardly worth the hassle of having his car towed. This story always reminds me of the importance of recognizing one’s relevance as a creative agent within the broader context of the economy in which one operates.

 Beethoven’s copyists, Shakespeare’s editors, Bernini’s engineers, and Da Vinci’s assistants were talented and skilled craftsmen, but they did not hold the same weight in the creative process as their employers. Similarly, Hans Zimmer’s army of orchestrators, Spielberg’s film developers and special effects specialists, and the animators at Pixar were all essential players in their employer’s creative vision. One could argue that great works of art would never have been possible without these craftsmen, but only insofar as they participated in the economics of their era rather than in the creative process itself.

 Part of the challenge in distinguishing between craftsmen and artists lies in how this distinction touches the heart of deeply personal journeys. No one enters the creative economy and spends years nurturing a passion without ambition and a conviction that they have something unique to express. Yet this tenacity does not mean that everyone in the creative economy has something compelling enough to convey—lacking inventiveness; nor is everyone able to skillfully realize their vision through their chosen medium—lacking craftsmanship. Transcendent artists throughout history are the product of a rare marriage of inventiveness and craftsmanship—a combination more uncommon than we often realize.

 People lacking inventiveness can still find work in the creative economy, while those lacking skill are generally bound to fail. If you're part of the creative economy, chances are you're not an artist but a craftsman. Lest I be accused of self-aggrandizing, I count myself among the craftsmen in the industry. Having met my share of true artists and had the great privilege of exploring the works of the masters, I can, without any self-pity, acknowledge that there is little in common between the muses who visited Picasso, Mahler, Bach, or Milton and those available to me. As Bloom pointed out, despite our tendency to label every kindergartener a creative genius, the reality is that true artistic genius is rare, and the majority of those in the creative economy are craftsmen of some sort.

 The rarity of truly worthwhile artistic expression is so overwhelming that it often fails to meet the demands of global cultural markets. This disparity has, at times, led to the glorification of lesser talents to satisfy a hungry market. But despite the halo effect that credentialism and accolades can bestow on lesser artists, to paraphrase Justice Stewart once more, audiences of posterity typically recognize the difference between genius and the mundane when they encounter it.

 The division between meaningful and ephemeral art becomes palpable when we truly need an outlet for our internal struggles. It has become a typical question to ask: “What book/movie/album/etc. would you bring to a deserted island?” I find that this question lacks sufficient urgency and gravity to make us realize what we truly can't live without. After all, time on an island with a good book or album seems rather leisurely. I would rather ask: what works of art would you wish to accompany you into the abyss? Had you been interned in the Nazi concentration camps and ghettos or the Soviet gulags, what artistic expressions would have fulfilled your need for a counter-world?

 And there lies the weakness of the arguments which posit that machines cannot replace humans in the creative industry because they lack the fundamental humanity that makes creative work worth doing and admiring. While this argument holds strong when discussing true artists, it does not account for the craftsmen who lack a strong creative impulse. Can I imagine a world where a machine replaces Bach, Keats, Velázquez, or Kate Soper? No. But can I imagine these creatives using AI tools instead of relying on humans for tasks like copying their manuscripts, editing their writings, and other such things? Yes. Can I imagine a world where commercial jingle writers, movie composer orchestrators, color correctors, recording mastering engineers, sound artists, and TV composers are replaced by AI tools? Yes.

 The inclusion of large language model technologies in the creative economy, coupled with the ongoing process of creative destruction, should raise concerns for many craftsmen while igniting excitement among creative artists. I am reminded of the crisis that swept through the chess world—and intellectual circles more broadly—when the Deep Blue computer defeated chess grandmaster Garry Kasparov in the late nineties. What followed mirrored Dr. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s five stages of grief: first, denial that computers could ever surpass humans in chess, a game celebrated as the pinnacle of human intellectual achievement. Then came anger, as Kasparov accused Deep Blue of being manipulated and prompted by human interference. Bargaining followed—perhaps computers could merely enhance human players rather than replace them. This was soon overshadowed by depression, as grandmasters mourned a bygone era before Pandora’s box had been opened. Finally, there was acceptance: the realization that computers had irrevocably transformed chess, revealing new possibilities for the sport even as they upended its traditional paradigms.

 Creative artists, grappling with the inexorable march of creative destruction and the rise of machine-driven tools, unconsciously traverse the stages of grief that once afflicted the chess world. Denial comes first—a steadfast belief that the deeply human essence of art is beyond the reach of algorithms and models, bolstered by a hope that labor unions or ethical resistance will halt the emergence of these technologies. This denial often gives way to anger aimed at what feels like a desecration of their craft and at industries that prioritize efficiency and convenience over human endeavor. Bargaining follows: a cautious hope that these tools might act as collaborators rather than replacements, a way to retain agency over their work. But depression creeps in as they confront the reality that many roles within the broader creative economy—especially those reliant on repetitive craftsmanship—are indeed vulnerable to replacement. For those who persist, however, there is acceptance—not as a concession to obsolescence, but as a recognition that these disruptive tools might also catalyze creation, opening unforeseen pathways for innovation and growth to those bold enough to embrace them.

 I take solace in the fact that the chess world not only survived the challenge posed by Deep Blue but adapted and ultimately thrived. Over time, chess computers became the norm, reshaping the game’s landscape. While this technological shift dismantled parts of the chess industry—rendering obsolete the roles of strategy book authors, coaches, and certain tutors—platforms like Chess.com have emerged, democratizing access to learning tools and broadening the game’s global reach. Chess has experienced a surge in popularity that would have been unimaginable in the late 1990s. As for the grandmasters, they were not replaced by computers. After all, nobody tunes in to watch two machines face off. The intrinsic allure of chess players lies in their humanity. It doesn’t matter that computers can play the game more perfectly; the real appeal is witnessing a human’s capacity for calculation, resilience, and mental strength under pressure and stress.

 As in chess, machines will render large swaths of the creative economy obsolete, but they will also amplify interest in creative fields and inspire new engagement from amateurs and enthusiasts alike. I believe Jan Swafford was correct when he argued that a Beethoven-like symphony produced by AI is, at best, a curiosity. The more compelling question is: what Beethoven would have created if he had access to a large language model? It certainly wouldn’t be a mere replication of his past work—it would be something transcendent, shaped by the possibilities of this new landscape.

 Beethoven would have been an adopter of this technology, as he was always aware of the advancements in his time and embraced innovations that profoundly influenced his music. One of the most notable was the piano, which had evolved with stronger and more dynamic capabilities due to the introduction of iron frames and improved action, allowing Beethoven to explore a wider range of expression in his later piano works. He also adopted the metronome, incorporating precise tempo markings into many of his compositions, such as the Ninth Symphony and his late piano sonatas. Additionally, the tuning fork, invented in 1711, became an essential tool for ensuring accurate pitch, particularly as Beethoven's hearing deteriorated. These technological advancements allowed Beethoven to push the boundaries of musical expression, creating works that were revolutionary for their time and continue to resonate today.

 Those who fear this technology often project its effects onto our current world rather than imagining the world that will evolve to incorporate it. When even the most average of creators can produce anything with a simple prompt and a button click, the average consumer will demand creations that transcend such ease. The real challenge ahead is not between creative artists and emerging technologies, but rather between craftsmen and productivity tools. The pain and fear many in the creative sector are experiencing stem not from the destruction of their artistic fields, but from the personal realization that they are not the creative agents they once hoped to be.

 I can't remember where I first heard the adage “not everyone can become a ballerina,” but the truth it conveys is most painful to those who, despite their skill, realize they cannot cross the thin line that separates them from genius. Though this may sound depressing to some, I believe this preoccupation is essential for those striving for transcendental achievement. We know that Picasso and Dalí were constantly preoccupied with matching the achievements of Velázquez and Goya. Similarly, Beethoven was haunted by Bach, Mary Shelley by Milton, Milton by Shakespeare, Da Vinci and Michelangelo by the Greeks, and Churchill by Lord Marlborough and Napoleon (and Napoleon by Alexander and Caesar).

 Explosive moments of creativity are more often than not the result of overcoming the challenges posed by great minds from humanity’s past. As Newton wrote to Robert Hooke in 1675, “If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of Giants.” Facing a challenge is creativity’s natural fertilizer, and machines capable of producing viable mediocrity at the touch of a button are the greatest antidote to complacency.

 The debate surrounding the role of AI in the creative industries exposes deeper tensions within society regarding labor, creativity, and human value. While the allure of union protections and humanistic defenses may offer temporary comfort, history shows that technological advances inevitably drive industry shifts that cannot be halted through regulation alone. As the elevator example vividly demonstrates, labor movements, despite their initial successes, ultimately cannot prevent the inevitable march of progress. However, the unique human connection found in true art remains resistant to mechanization. Despite the challenges we face, the need for art that speaks to our shared human experience cannot be replaced by machines. Yet, the boundary between art, craftsmanship, and entertainment is becoming increasingly blurred, raising questions about what truly constitutes meaningful cultural expression. In navigating this uncertainty, it is essential to reclaim the distinction between creative artistry and mere production, ensuring that the value of human ingenuity is not lost amid the noise of technological advancement.

 I often find that these analyses can seem pessimistic, but I do not view them that way. Periods of creative destruction are undeniably frightening and can lead many to despair. My suggestion to those in the creative economy as our industries evolve is to double down on the motivation that drives your involvement in the generation of culture. We all do what we must to make ends meet, and in that journey, we often find ourselves putting off writing that novel, composing great songs, operas, or symphonies, or avoiding the coldness of the empty canvas. Yet, thanks to emerging technologies, most people with a creative inclination now have access to tools that were once available only to a select few successful artists: editing software, color correction tools, orchestration programs, and more. What will you create with such power at your disposal?

On the Trappings of Tinseltown

Challenges that Face The AFM/Los Angeles in the Next Decade

Los Angeles is home to the largest entertainment conglomerate in the world. Between LA and Silicon Valley, California leads the sector from both its technological developments and its content creators. Due to this fact, it is unsurprising that the Greater LA chapters of the American Federation of Musicians cater to the musicians whose incomes are tied to the entertainment industry. Despite the many careers tied to the industry, the musicians whose livelihoods depend on movies are a minority of the musician population in the city. The American Federation of Musicians (AFM) Local 47 (the LA Chapter), has been embroiled in negotiations in the hopes of securing a more lucrative contract that reflects a market where DVD sales and theatre releases have been all but absorbed by streaming platforms.

These negotiations have made me think about the long-term viability of the commercial part of the Los Angeles music industry as we face the decade ahead. The analysis I offer is not intended to criticize the AFM, but rather offer an opinion of the challenges that face the industry. I wish the musicians whose livelihoods are tied to the AFM and its contracts with the media conglomerates from the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers Association nothing but luck. While I do not believe that any union will be able to halt the changes that are already underway, I wish them luck in their attempt to protect their livelihoods in the only way they know how.

As I see it, the industry has changed and the main challenges facing Los Angeles’ AFM chapter I will discuss here are: changing fashions in the scoring of movies and TV shows, the current unprofitability of the streaming model, the expansion of expertise to previously inactive foreign markets, a loss in musicians’ loyalty to unions that don’t cater to the careers of a majority of their constituents, and finally the emerging viability of tools like AI and sound libraries.

Fashions Changed, Less Movies and TV Shows Use Orchestras

Before moving to California, I often heard Tom Stevens and others talk about the decline in studio work since the late 80s. According to these Hollywood vets, back in the 70s, in any given week 20 full-size orchestras were required at the different studios to provide the soundtracks for movies and TV shows. This means that during any given week up to 80 trumpet players might receive a call to record at a studio. The number of violinists receiving this call was many orders of magnitude larger.

While movie studios offered the best contracts for both working musicians and composers, this reality extended to those musicians recording the soundtracks for sitcoms, dramas, and most TV shows since the advent of the medium. Hollywood’s incessant need for music fueled a massive music industry and made many musicians enjoy revenues unlike those of any freelance musician in the world. Those days of wine and roses were long over by the time I arrived in LA some ten years ago, but they are still within living memory. There is a stark contrast in the wealth accumulated by musicians who were active between 1950–2000 and those whose careers have been mostly active in the last two decades because in that time the popularity of large orchestral scores has declined.

It is hard to imagine a scenario where a studio would commission a large-scale orchestral score for a family comedy in 2024. It is equally inconceivable that they should engage the leading movie composer in the industry for the task. But this was just what Chris Columbus did in 1990 when he tasked John Williams to score Home Alone. Three years later he would engage legendary film composer Howard Shore to score another comedy, Mrs. Doubtfire. These were not revolutionary choices by a daring director or a privilege awarded to him by a studio, this was simply the norm in the industry until that point.

The decline in large musical scores is even starker in television. The orchestral music for hit shows like Seinfeld, Friends, or Big Bang Theory was much reduced when compared to shows produced even a decade or two earlier, and unrecognizable from the lush scores that were the norm in the 50s, 60s, and 70s. As an example, we will contrast the theme songs from hit shows in every decade leading to 2024.

• 1950: Jackie Gleason Show

• 1960: I Dream of Jeannie

• 1970: The Six Million Dollar Man

• 1980: The Simpsons

• 1990: Friends

• 2000: Seinfeld

• 2010: Big Bang Theory

• 2020: Ted Lasso

 Even the Simpsons stopped having regular recording sessions in 2017 due to the costs associated with employing a now outdated 35-piece orchestra. Whether musicians and directors feel that music is a crucial component of what makes movies and TV shows special, it is clear that this sentiment is either not shared or not obvious to consumers and producers alike.

 Unprofitable Streaming Threatens the Studios Themselves

I am not privy to the negotiations currently underway between the AFM Local 47 and the media conglomerates that make up the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers Association, but I do have some thoughts about the main points the AFM shared on its website. These comments come not as an affront to the negotiations themselves, but simply to highlight some market realities that seem to escape the spirit of the AFM’s communications. As they inform the reader the AFM is attempting to come to terms with the streaming model by negotiating four main issues which have resulted in a significant decline in revenue for Los Angeles studio musicians. The four issues in question are:

·      Residual payments for made-for-streaming content

·      AI protection

·      Increased industry wages

·      Improved working conditions

The AFM website states:

Recording musicians performing on soundtracks are making (75%) less on content premiering on streaming platforms. These musicians…are not being compensated accordingly for streaming media…the entertainment industry has fundamentally shifted. Content now premieres primarily on streaming platforms rather than in movie theaters and on [sic] network television.

This shift has resulted in considerably less residual income for musicians, threatening our livelihoods. In essence, the talent bringing scores to life is being commoditized without a fair share of the considerable profits made by companies such as Disney, Paramount, Universal, and Warner Bros. This practice is neither fair nor sustainable.

I sympathize with the shifting conditions facing Hollywood and in turn, the musicians whose careers are linked to that specific segment of the creative economy. The AFM, however, is mistaken if they believe that musicians alone are suffering the dramatic financial impacts created by the advent of streaming technologies. The financial viability of the streaming model was constructed around a unique set of conditions brought on by a global shutdown. At that moment—and with the advantage of immense captive audiences—every studio put all their eggs in the basket of a model that did not show a clear path to profitability. After many negative quarters, it is clear that streaming platforms have thus far been a financial failure for most Hollywood Studios. The losses of the once plump residual compensation contracts that the AFM laments, are but a reflection of parallel situations being experienced by major studios in every single aspect of content creation. The revenue models of old have proven incompatible with a subscription model. As one analyst in an article for the Hollywood Reporter noted “Life is tough for media networks when ad spending falls,” and as direct-to-consumer platforms are mostly built on a model that departs from ad revenue, it is no surprise that life has been tough for all of Hollywood since Netflix crashed the party in 2007.

The value of ads for television and movies has also come into question with the birth of independent internet content creators. The contractual demands of big studios are significantly more strenuous than the ones offered by internet content creators. Coca-Cola can—for example—pay Disney 20 million dollars to include their latest product in their programming or their streaming service. This fee is determined by the tremendous costs that burden Disney. In other words, the 20 million will be necessary to cover many salaries and departments. On the other hand, Coca-Cola can pay a single creator like Joe Rogan or Kim Kardashian 2 million for the same service and often reach more consumers. Rogan or Kardashian are happy to take less for their services because their production costs and other related expenses are relatively insignificant when compared to those of a studio. The ecosystem that funded television is also therefore a more competitive environment than it once was.

 Despite the bullish attitudes of media conglomerate CEOs, the news has become more dire for streaming platforms. The Wall Street Journal reported in January 2024 that “one-quarter of US subscribers to major streaming services…have canceled at least three of them over the past two years…Two years ago, that number stood at 15%.” The initial excitement for projected revenues from streaming services was built on the back of a model where a single company—Netflix—was cornering the entire market and could offer the consumer a significantly cheaper and more convenient alternative to cable, which also did away with the pesky ads that interrupted viewing. It is not even clear now whether streaming platforms represent a good value for money compared to cable when individuals must subscribe to multiple services to satiate their eclectic tastes. To make matters worse the price of individual subscriptions has sometimes doubled in the last 3 years.

 The trends in streaming’s profitability should not discourage the AFM from seeking contracts that reflect the new realities of the industry, but since the dust hasn’t yet settled on whether the model as a whole is profitable it is advisable not to rush to promote an adversarial tone when confronting studios which are facing extinction if their streaming services continue to prove unprofitable. The AFM is demanding a share of the profits from streaming, which except for Netflix remains inexistent. A pertinent example of the massive losses streaming services have represented for studios is Disney+ since the company has mostly remained loyal to the recording artists in Los Angeles. Since its launch, the Disney service has lost the company nearly 10 billion dollars, and the only remotely profitable part of their business is in ESPN, where music amounts to jingles.

 The quick transition of blockbuster films from theatre to streaming may also point to the fact that studios like Disney have been unable to reliably produce revenue-generating films in the post-COVID world. In 2023 it is estimated that Disney lost close to  1 billion dollars at the box office. The company was forced to lay off 3.2% of its workforce, with more likely to follow as the company seeks to cut 2 billion in costs in 2024. These streaming releases are in sharp contrast with the vast revenue generated by movies like Oppenheimer or Barbie, which remained exclusively in theatres for months, and initially hit streaming services with a rental cost. For the most part, the assumption that LA musicians are being robbed of vast profits is in many cases contrary to the revenue potential of disastrously unpopular films.

 International Markets Favor Competition

 The relative success of the SAG-AFTRA negotiations is also making Local 47 overestimate their long-term position in the industry as a whole. When faced with the need to generate content for English-speaking consumers, movie studios are limited in their production markets. Although many countries speak English, it is truly only in 5 countries—USA, UK, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand—where a studio could reliably create content. As such this limits a studio’s ability to circumvent the collective bargaining demands of a union like SAG-AFTRA. Moreover, star power still plays a central role in the success of any film or TV show, and an actor like Leonardo DiCaprio or Margot Robbie cannot simply be replaced in a project by unknown talented stand-ins. Such is not the case for music recording for soundtracks.

 It was probably the case for decades that the specialized musicians in Los Angeles were impossible to emulate in any major city. As early as the late 1970s however, London showed the viability of working outside the LA bubble and opened a market where musicians demanded larger upfront payments from studios in exchange for reduced residuals. This has been a continuous trend since the 1970s, and now Eastern Europe is open for business armed with highly trained musicians who are happy to work for contracts that would incense Los Angeles studio professionals. Unlike the case with DiCaprio or Margot Robbie, it turns out the average media consumer is wholly unaware (and uncaring) of the identity of orchestral musicians performing the soundtracks to their favorite movies and shows. Additionally, while the limitations present in generating English-speaking content will limit a studio’s options when outsourcing work, music knows almost no bounds in 2024. Orchestrally trained musicians can be found on every continent, and the contracts that might seem insulting to a US citizen will make even Europeans salivate, not to mention how much more attractive they would seem to musicians in Latin America, Africa, or Asia. This is also true for recording engineers and producers who can now be found in every continent.

 As a final note, studio time used to be insanely expensive before the digital age. Not only was the cost of tape significant, but the expertise required for cutting an album was expensive and localized in only a few cities worldwide. This is no longer the case. Digital technologies permit endless takes, and editing software is portable and available everywhere. Expertise comes at little cost to people willing to seek knowledge on YouTube or online forums. Thanks to this shift, the importance of having musicians who can lay down tracks in a single take becomes a commodity instead of a necessity. This means that LA musicians can easily price themselves out of an industry where extreme accuracy is no longer the most valued commodity.

 Union Protections Favor a Small Number of Musicians Making Loyalty Unlikely

 The AFM’s negotiation leverage woes don’t only face international challenges. The Local 47 has strongly prioritized the protection of studio musicians, which makes sense considering they remain the city’s top earners. In 2024, however, only a minority of LA’s musicians have ever been called for a soundtrack studio session, and even fewer live off those calls entirely. As such the wealthiest minority of the musicians that make up the AFM are relying on the long-term solidarity of musicians whose income would be unaffected entirely by the resolution of their conflicts with the media conglomerates that make up the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers Association. The majority of LA musicians would be directly unaffected by the departure of studio work from the city altogether. The median income for a Los Angeles musician is roughly $50,000, while most studio musicians often double this number (not to mention the humongous pension payouts many musicians active in bygone plump years are receiving yearly). This financial divide not only decreases the solidarity among musicians towards those benefiting from lucrative studio contracts but also increases the chances that parallel non-union opportunities find willing participants who see little benefit in belonging to the AFM.

 The Local 47 is also unlikely to have endless national solidarity from the rest of the country’s chapters long-term. Cities like Nashville—which has already earned the moniker Soundtrack City—have long benefited from Los Angeles’ Local 47’s proclivity for impractical contracts. Many American cities would welcome an opportunity to lure studios by accepting conditions like those that dominate Nashville or London. In a quest to force video game companies to pay a “fair share” of their considerable profits, LA lost profits from that industry altogether. As Steve Schnur explained in an article for the Associated Press, “Now…90 to 95% of EA’s scores are being recorded in Nashville, with the rest recorded in London.”

 It is not evident whether Local 47 learned its lesson from the loss of video game revenue which has made Nashville musicians prosper in their own right, but it should cause them pause should they choose to continuously engage the movie studios with a similar strategy.

 AI & Improving Sound Libraries

 The AFM’s woes caused by streaming models in 2024, however, pale in comparison to the impacts the industry is bound to experience as AI technologies improve. The unveiling of Chat GPT was the precursor to a cataclysmic disruption to creative industries which is advancing at a speed that was hitherto believed to be decades in the future. Based on the capabilities of GPT 3.5 and the subsequent advances achieved in GPT 4, we can all imagine tools that will render many jobs in the creative economy irrelevant overnight. I can envisage versions of Sibelius, Ableton, or Logic with features that will replace talented orchestrators or editors within the decade. Soon we will be able to prompt such programs to, for example, “write a cue in the style of Miles Davis for a film noir scene,” with astounding results. As if this weren’t troubling enough, it is a safe bet that sound libraries, midi instruments, and orchestration tools will rival live performers within the decade.

 It is not clear from the AFM’s website what they are seeking from studios when it comes to AI protections, but ultimately this is a pointless task of Sisyphean proportions. To my understanding, the protections the AFM seeks are aimed at protecting LA musicians from having their sound and likeness used without their consent through AI. This is laudable, although I predict that while they might keep their likeness private, musicians in other parts of the world will be happy to contribute to the generating of sound libraries and recordings devoid of these protections. I can predict this with almost 100% confidence because there has not been a union, monopoly, guild, or interest group in history that has ever contained the advent of new trends and technologies. Delays to impending impacts cannot ever halt them. Furthermore, innovations and disruptions to a sector rarely come from within the parameters of said guilds. The protectionism inherent in these structures makes them vulnerable to changes that are futile to resist. If LA can force studios to refrain from using AI technologies broadly, it will fail to do so in other markets which will undoubtedly become more competitive and eventually render LA obsolete.

 People have already compiled lists of sound libraries being used to complement the hours of music required for video games, and it is not unimaginable to think that these electronic orchestras will one day replace a bulk of the musicians used in most jingles, games, TV Show cues, or low-budget movies. It is an open secret that many of the musicians who provide sounds for these libraries are AFM Local 47 members participating in so-called “dark dates” unsanctioned by the union. The hypocrisy of this escapes nobody, but like contraband, it is the natural economic result of extreme protectionism.

 The decline of industries with the advent of new technologies resisted by guilds or unions is a story as old as time. By the time the German piano guilds which had rejected the innovations of a young Steinway attempted to compete with his American-made pianos, he had already cornered the market. By the time Eastman Kodak embraced the digital landscape, the once titanic company was a few years from bankruptcy. By the time record labels decided to stop fighting Napster and iTunes, it was too late to negotiate appropriate contracts in a medium they had failed to understand. Surely anyone could come up with myriad examples in any field. It is typically the norm that protectionism only briefly delays the inevitable, and surely renders its proponents unable to face the very competitors they refused to learn about or take seriously.

 My Optimistic Predictions Inside the Doom

 Although I value Platonic philosophy, I also believe that its central preoccupation with halting entropy by seeking paradigms that attempt to halt and revert change is both misguided and pointless. My main predictions that the AFM Local 47’s initiatives will at best slow down the inevitable are not presented here with glee. My outlook on the Los Angeles music scene might seem grim…because they are. Los Angeles remains one of the most vibrant cities in the West’s long artistic history, but artistic ecosystems in cities rarely last forever. New York lacks the vibrancy it had in the 1920s or from the late sixties to the late seventies. Paris now is not what it was in the years between the two world wars. Florence and Venice are charming, but not alive in the same way as they were in the Renaissance. Such is the nature of entropy and artistic scenes often become victims of their success, but this does not always doom these cities. The echoes of cultural achievement can sustain a region for centuries so long as pride in an outstanding output can be constantly fed.

 It is the knowledge that great things continue to pop up in unlikely places throughout history that makes me bullish about the future of the arts. The very factors that threaten the survival of the Los Angeles music scene also point to phenomenal opportunities for other cities. The decentralization of the recording industry has already made it possible for artists around the globe to develop within their nations while reaching audiences in every continent. Artists can set up home studios for the cost of a good microphone and recording software. There has been an explosion of self-taught musicians thanks to the internet, and while their knowledge of music theory is extremely lacking in many cases, this has at times led to unique expressions that are difficulted by the conformity of scholastic training.

 I predict that a great many jobs in the creative economy will disappear within my lifetime, replaced by electronic tools that will replicate tasks with remarkable ease. Orchestrators, copyists, jingle composers, audio engineers, assistants, and a large chunk of music studio performers will lose their jobs. Not unlike carriage builders, horseshoe makers, sail makers, and boat tarring teams, many once essential careers will become anachronistic and unnecessary. Within the recording industry, the once lucrative careers enjoyed by the experts in charge of cutting tape have already become an oddity. Despite the disappearance of many jobs, I predict that true creative minds will find in emerging technologies and open global markets the tools that feed their insatiable production.

 Using the movie music industry as an example, one can find cause to be optimistic. Composers like Hans Zimmer employ small armies of talented musicians to execute their concepts. This type of infrastructure has been impossible to recreate for up-and-coming talents until now. Within the decade, however, AI tools will give a young composer access to the same arsenal for a yearly fee that would fail to cover the salary of a single human employee. This invaluable access to productivity tools hitherto only available to big media conglomerates will allow for an explosion of creativity fueled by otherwise untappable potential. Additionally, movie producers and directors will continue to rely on the expertise of the creative people prompting the AI tools. As an LA-based film composer told me recently, “Film directors are often paralyzed by uncertainty when it comes to their work, the bulk of a composer’s job is to interpret a director’s work and score it accordingly.” AI tools are just that, tools. But they will for the foreseeable future continue to rely on skilled, creative artists to give them the appropriate prompts to create. Hans Zimmer’s many employees might be replaced by a computer, but he certainly will not.

 If the introduction of the pianoforte expanded the access to music in every home, I can see a scenario where an ever-expanding community of amateur and professional creators will thirst for live concerts, groundbreaking art, and experiential gatherings. After all, amateurs are often the most interested consumers of professional products. It is their surface knowledge of the difficulty behind a process that fuels their appreciation for the astonishing creativity behind meaningful works of art.