But now with technology I could sit down and do a bunch of

Hear the words of Bill Griffith, a craftsman of images and stories, who declared: “But now with technology I could sit down and do a bunch of character drawings and scan them into a computer, and the computer using my exact style could bring it into life, where it would have been edited by various human beings before.” At first, this seems only a reflection on the tools of art, yet in truth it is a proclamation of freedom, a witness to the way invention has transformed the artist’s struggle against time, against distance, and against the meddling hands of others.

He speaks of the power of technology, which has unchained the artist from the endless cycle of correction, revision, and compromise at the hands of editors and middlemen. Once, the creator’s vision had to pass through many others, each shaping and altering it until the final work no longer bore the pure mark of its origin. But now, with the computer, the artist’s style can leap directly from hand to world, preserved without dilution. In this we see the victory of authenticity, for no longer must the spark of the creator be dimmed by too many intervening flames.

This transformation is not without precedent. When Johannes Gutenberg unveiled the printing press, writers and thinkers were liberated from the slow, error-prone labor of scribes. No longer did their words have to filter through the weary hands of copyists who might alter or lose them. Instead, the text could appear as it was meant, replicated faithfully, and carried across nations. Just as printing preserved the integrity of the writer, so does modern digital technology preserve the hand of the illustrator, the animator, the storyteller.

Yet Griffith’s words also speak of a paradox. For while technology preserves style, it also introduces a new question: what role remains for the human hand of collaboration? In earlier days, though editors and assistants altered the work, they also brought new eyes, new voices, sometimes even new brilliance. To be freed from them is to gain control, but also to risk isolation. Thus, his reflection carries both triumph and caution—art must remain pure, but art also flourishes in dialogue. The wise creator must balance the solitary power of the computer with the enduring need for human exchange.

Consider the story of Walt Disney, whose earliest animations were drawn by hand, each frame painstakingly created by teams of artists. His vision was grand, but it required the labor of many. Now, with digital tools, a single artist can conjure whole worlds, in their exact style, with a speed once unthinkable. Yet, though the tools have changed, the heart remains the same: it is imagination, not machinery, that breathes true life into the work. The computer, like the brush or the pen, is only an instrument—the soul of the artist must still guide it.

The teaching here is profound: do not despise the tools of your time. Embrace technology not as a master, but as a servant to your vision. Do not cling so tightly to tradition that you refuse to see the new ways in which your voice may be preserved, amplified, and shared. At the same time, remember that machines cannot replace the essence of creativity, which lies in the spirit of the one who creates. The tool magnifies the hand, but it is the hand that gives it purpose.

Practical actions await you. If you are an artist, learn the new tools of your age; let them extend your reach, but do not let them erase your humanity. Preserve your unique style, as Griffith speaks of, for this is the mark of your authenticity. Share your work boldly, knowing that fewer barriers stand in your way. But also, do not close your ears to others—seek counsel, embrace collaboration, even as you wield your independence. For in this balance lies the path to art that is both true to the creator and alive to the world.