Master Yoda and Rembrandt The Fox discuss the horizon.

Once, a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, Yoda complained that Luke Skywalker’s mind was “always looking away… to the future, to the horizon”. Western culture has long had an uneasy relationship with the future. We scold the “foolish dreamer” while celebrating the “visionary leader.” The difference can be circumstantial, with visionary leaders receiving more encouragement and support to galvanize their resolve.

Walking through my backyard — which happily looks more like Endor than Dagobah — I was struck by the realization that I see almost everything through the lens of what could be. I have done so my entire life. Though the work was hard, I realized early that a blank sheet of paper can be covered with words or drawings of anything. I was encouraged to see what a marvel of opportunity that is. A playground for the creativity that each human can channel.

In the forest, with Yoda in mind, I reflexively started to admonish myself for my equally reflexive tendency to see opportunity for future change and improvement. To take on projects and make my life more work.

But then I stopped myself and thought, “F___ you, Yoda!” I am proud to play my part as a creator trying to make the world a slightly better place, one future-facing idea at a time. I’ve created award-winning design work, helped colleagues achieve career goals, made clients more successful, earned friends, and raised two amazing sons. All of that creation requires constant projection of my mind toward the horizon. To turn what is at hand into something more.

With the expletives out of the way, my mind settled down into its strategic comfort zone, its familiar desire to make and share ideas.

So — with all due respect to Yoda — I say to you. There is risk in being too focused on the now. The risk is in setting your sights too low. Of being distracted by the mundane or the endlessness of a social media feed. The depression of governmental, economic, and cosmic forces beyond our control. The worry that there are too many narrow-minded humans counting em-dashes so they can accusingly comment “Created with AI!” and troll the author, rather than simply enjoy the story and wonder how it could affect their own.

Conversely, there is little risk in getting lost in the writing or reading of a piece of prose that fills what once was but a blank page. A page that, if left unused, would be nothing more than the wasted life of a beautiful tree like the ones I have the honor of walking amongst in the redwood forest of California. Looking up at these trees on their hundreds-of-years-long quest for sunlight, I am resolved to make each sheet of paper count for something. Even when that page is a digital metaphor.

Perhaps these thoughts robbed me of my quiet moment in the woods as a result of recent and sustained pondering about Generative AI and its impact on creativity. Don’t get me wrong. I think AI is amazing. I think the really amazing impact of AI hasn’t even happened yet. But I think hammers are amazing too, and that doesn’t stop me from occasionally hitting my thumb with one. The best defense against injury is practice and vigilance.

So, that’s my advice. Practice with vigilance.

Dabble, explore, collaborate, take risks, but don’t let AI create for you. Don’t accept its version of your idea in place of your own.

While AI can ink reams of paper and type endless words on screen, it can’t fabricate the heartache of the creative struggle, the lasting elation of accomplishment that propels your growth as a creator. The particular work of creativity that is truly yours.

We need to remind ourselves that great work takes time. It took almost 200 years to build Notre-Dame Cathedral. Multiple generations looking away to the future. It took J.R.R. Tolkien 17 years to write The Lord of the Rings. Michelangelo was under deadline pressure, and it still took four years to paint the Sistine Chapel. You want an AI-generated masterpiece in under 10 seconds? When it’s that easy and everyone can do it, all you’re going to get is a lovely novelty prize that disappears below the fold without causing anything more impactful than a few non-committal likes. Recent research suggests that even you will likely forget about it. Our creative forebears are screaming at us from the great beyond: “It’s a trap!”

Take time to step away from your desk and your phone.

Walk under a tree and remember that everything you admire, everything, was once a blank slate, screen or sheet of paper in the care of someone pondering what might be possible if only the horizon could be attained. An idea that became a labor of love.

Pick up a pencil, think your own thoughts, and make a mark.

My wish for you is that first mark sucks. That you are forced to stick with it. To refine your idea as you refine your marks. That in doing so, you lose track of time and find your resolve. Because in the end — and most particularly in an era of immediate but shallow gratification — the gift is in being reminded that everything can’t be easy.

Note:

All em-dashes are those of the author and used — perhaps in excess — by way of a withering glare in ChatGPT’s direction.

Despite the obvious irony, the illustration is the work of Midjourney (plus a bit of Photoshop). It is meant to represent Master (painter) Yoda in the company of Rembrandt as a fox while they ponder the horizon being painted. It’s okay that this image will disappear below the fold, taking a like or two with it.

Image Midjourney Prompt:
Yoda facing the giant painting by Rembrandt ‘Night Watch’ in a painter’s studio surrounded but paint, brushes. The drop cloth on the floor and Yoda’s cloak are splattered with paint as we see over Yoda’s shoulder. There is an anthropomorphic red fox dressed in doublet and breeches from the 17th century standing next to Yoda. The fox has his arm around Yoda’s shoulder. Dramatic cinematic lighting. — ar 16:9

Originally published on LinkedIn 09.10.2025 as part of an ongoing series of articles exploring the context and implications of GenAI relative to the creative enterprise.