Burning Baskets

As the rise of artificial intelligence (AI) challenges the nature of art itself, a 3rd-4th century desert monk demonstrates the creative process’ efficaciousness to our souls — and the need to reinvigorate the transcendentals: the good, the true, and the beautiful.   

Abbot Paul lived in a “vast” country — a seven days’ journey from towns or “inhabited districts,” as John Cassian, a 5th century monk and theologian, recounts in his history of the desert Fathers. Yet Abbot Paul had plenty to sustain himself: date palms, a small garden, and “an ample supply of food.” 

Nevertheless, he suffered from acedia, a spiritual depression causing “decreasing vigilance” and “carelessness of heart,” as the Catechism of the Catholic Church defines. Instead of deepening his prayer life, as intended by his asceticism, despair gripped his heart. Fatigue, listlessness, and restlessness plagued his mind. God felt distant. These phenomena feel all too familiar today, as modernity is gripped by a prevailing anxiety and depression. 

To combat the affliction, however, the desert monk employed an unusual remedy. 

Over the course of a year, he collected palms, weaved baskets over which he “had so diligently labored.” Then, shockingly, instead of selling the baskets for sustenance or utilizing them for an alternative purpose, he burned them. All the work was incinerated — consumed by flames. His time and production seemingly wasted. But Abbot Paul wove “for the sake of purifying his heart, and strengthening his thoughts, and persisting in his cell,” as Cassian describes.

By burning the baskets, his efforts were not rendered meaningless. Quite the contrary. He was drawn closer to God by “gaining a victory over [acedia] and driving it away.” He valued the creative process — collaborating joyfully with God — rather than the end product. 

It was art for art’s sake. In the end, his works glorified God: He who made the palms and the man who weaved the baskets. 

Today, AI is revolutionizing the creative process — and not necessarily for the better. While workflows are being streamlined, processes expedited, and output increased, the technology has already been abused, particularly in artistic endeavors. AI-generated books, movies, memes, and ‘paintings’ proliferate the web, derivations of great masterworks produced by human genius. Compounding matters, corporations like Disney and OpenAI are forging partnerships to permit audiences to generate their own, personalized films. Other studios will, more than likely, follow suit. 

With a quick prompt and click of a button, an individual can “create” a movie, book or song — without developing any talents or skills. This fosters the illusion of craftsmanship, which, undoubtedly, people prone to expediency will readily exploit. Hard work — and genuine collaboration in creation — will be diluted, and thus a lost “intrinsic connection to the divine,” as Dr. Steven Umbrello argues.

However, there is a sacred relationship between art, humanity, and God. As the Catechism states, “[A]rt is a distinctively human form of expression,” and “a form of practical wisdom, uniting knowledge and skill, to give form to the truth of reality in a language accessible to sight or hearing.” More importantly:

“…art bears a certain likeness to God's activity in what he has created. Like any other human activity, art is not an absolute end in itself, but is ordered to and ennobled by the ultimate end of man.”

Still, convenience and innovation are not vices. Nor is unnecessary toil in grunt work inherently virtuous. Indeed, human invention “springs from the creative capacity that God has entrusted to us,” Pope Leo XIV has said; and AI has its real-world economic and scientific benefits. Yet people are willingly conditioning themselves to a new manifestation of sloth. Overreliance — or cognitive offloading — on AI tools diminishes critical thinking, attention spans, literary skills, and even stunting creativity. 

Granted, creativity has largely stagnated since the new millennium, prior to AI’s advent. For instance, in film, which is the most visible medium reflecting this phenomenon, the top grossing movies have predominately derived from existing intellectual properties (I.P.) or sequels. This year will be no different. 

If art reflects culture and vice versa, then American civilization has become overly decadent — more so than when Ross Douthat first observed this trend a decade ago. The downward spiral has been partially self-inflicted: soaring ticket prices, peoples’ propensity to stay home, the boom of streaming services, and overly-politicized content have worsened box office returns. Ironically, humans have failed to deliver quality, engaging entertainment; the influx of AI-generated content only heightens the absurdity in an ‘empty calorie content’ era.

Undoubtedly, a fan can generate a better Star Wars narrative than the bigwigs at Disney and Lucasfilm. But this acceptance presents an existential threat to art itself — and thus man’s relationship to God. 

As the Catechism describes, art can evoke and glorify Him; and “sacred art draws man to adoration, to prayer, and to the love of God, Creator and Savior, the Holy One and Sanctifier.” In short, as St. Thomas Aquinas teaches, “God is an artist, and the universe is His work of art.” If God is an artist, and humanity is made in His image and likeness, then we emulate His identity when weaving baskets or creating other forms of art. In effect, creation elevates the soul — and cultivates the eternal good endowed in us by Him. Neglecting to create, then, risks jettisoning a crucial aspect of humanity. 

However, a nihilism toward humanity — and the Almighty — has infested the art world. As Sabin Howard, the sculptor behind the national World War I monument, “A Soldier’s Journey,” explained on Victor Davis Hanson: In His Own Words:

“I’m surrounded by other artists that do figurative art, but there is something terribly wrong here. …the story they are telling is very disturbing to me…it doesn’t take into account at all that we are all bound together in our existence by something way greater than ourselves. …it lacks a philosophy that is cohesive, that actually gives back to our society, that brings a sense of elevated cohesiveness.”  

The beautiful has been forgotten; but people gravitate toward and long for beautiful things. In truth, art’s efficaciousness lies in “open[ing] the door to the infinite” and the “eyes of the mind and heart,” as Pope Benedict XVI told a general audience, Aug. 31, 2011. There is a reason why generations of tourists flock to gaze upon the Mona Lisa and the Pietà. We are seemingly programmed to recognize beauty. 

AI-generated content, and the ‘creation’ thereof, can never be truly beautiful because it masquerades as art. Neither can love be fully infused. Love is fundamental in creation. For God, even His art took six days. Abbot Paul, who burned his works, nevertheless, loved the baskets because he wove with God in his heart — and, in the end, his soul was nourished to withstand the acedia. 

Acedia has reared its insidiousness once more. Though modernity enjoys unprecedented wealth and abundance, much like Abbot Paul prior to his spiritual endeavor, fewer people are happier; more are less satisfied with their jobs; and concerns over affordability and AI anxiety — whether over economic upheaval or ethical issues — are oft-discussed (and debated) by politicians and policymakers. No doubt, these sociological indicators are not improved through the onslaught of AI content. 

This is an opportune moment — especially among Catholic and religious artists. A generation is yearning for meaning. For purpose. For good stories and pieces of work that inspire awe and wonder. To awaken us from a malaise and ‘brain rot.’ Yet we must develop craft, which, in turn, promotes spiritual habits: discipline, humility, and perseverance.

The first step, however, is to ‘weave.’ Abbot Paul did so to remain present with God. And in the end, he resisted acedia, and his heart was purified. Our works can stimulate a similar effect when done in collaboration with the Ultimate Artist. And even if our works never see the light of day — or perhaps burn — there is fulfillment in a project’s completion, and offering it up to His glory. 

Ultimately, beauty lies in the process. We cannot forgo this truth, tempted by expediency, novelty, and convenience  — otherwise, we risk losing what makes us human.