What we did five years ago is better than what we’re doing today. And what we’re doing today will be better than what we’ll do five years from now. Robots will keep doing things more perfectly, but we humans won’t.
Antoni Centelles —my trusted printer since 2010— dropped those two sentences on me this Monday, and I scrambled to jot them down on the first scrap of paper I could find. He was only calling to let me know that the prototype for a project he’s producing for me would arrive the next day. But, as often happens to us these days, the call didn’t last three minutes — it lasted thirty-three. Yes, most of our back-and-forth could easily be handled by a voice note or a quick text, but instead, we end up talking about everything and nothing: about graphic design, about the state of the world, about our trades. And when I hang up, it feels like I’ve just listened to a podcast that no one recorded.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, he dropped half a dozen lines that could each be their own essay. I wrote them down too, but I’ll spare you the list — I don’t want to drift too far off topic.
What exactly does that reflection mean — that strange, circular certainty? It feels like a poetic lament about the human condition in the face of technology. As if progress hasn’t really set us free, but has slowly hollowed us out. Are we in creative decline because we’ve become beholden to automation and efficiency? If what we made five years ago was better, and what we’ll make five years from now will be worse, what does that say about what we’ll create fifteen years from now? Will we still be making things? Will they even be ours? Or will we be so shaped by algorithms that we won’t even recognize our own mark?
Are we in creative decline because we’ve become beholden to automation and efficiency? If what we made five years ago was better, and what we’ll make five years from now will be worse, what does that say about what we’ll create fifteen years from now.
And how long will we keep being moved by the perfection of a well-made thing? Maybe there’ll come a time when everything is so flawless, so automatic, that the only thing left to move us will be a human mistake: a smudge of ink, a crooked margin, a typo, or a trembling voice.
Saying that we used to do things better might be an act of resistance — or maybe just a romantic, pessimistic stance. It’s the kind of thing you’d expect from a seasoned craftsman who still loves what they do. I’m emphasizing still, because a year from now, who knows if there’ll be anyone left with ink-stained fingers, the patience to inspect every line with a magnifying glass, or the will to start over just because something “doesn’t quite fit.”
Maybe, in the end, that’s all this is: a way of saying we’re still here. That there are still people doing things that tomorrow won’t be done — or will only be done by machines. That we still do things while letting ourselves drift. That we still —still— let ourselves get caught up in phone calls that last longer than they should.
A hug from the H6 bus,
Ingrid
