There's nothing wrong with technology. It's when technology is

Billy Corgan, poet of sound and voice of rebellion, once declared: “There’s nothing wrong with technology. It’s when technology is the story and not the artist, that’s the problem.” In this saying lies a truth as old as human creation itself: the tools we fashion are never the soul of the work — it is the artist who breathes life into them. Technology may extend the hand, amplify the voice, or sharpen the chisel, but it cannot summon beauty, passion, or vision on its own. When the tool becomes greater than the hand that wields it, the spirit of art is lost.

In the days of the ancients, there were artisans who worked with bronze, stone, and pigments ground from the earth. Their tools were crude compared to ours, yet their works endure. The statues of Greece, the temples of Egypt, the frescoes of Rome — these were not celebrated for the chisels, brushes, or scaffolds that built them, but for the vision of the artist who dared to create. If the tools themselves had been the story, their works would have perished with the materials. Instead, it is the human spirit — the courage to shape beauty out of dust — that has carried these creations through the ages.

Consider also the tale of Orpheus, whose lyre was simple, no greater than any other. It was not the instrument that moved stones, trees, and even the rulers of the underworld, but the soul of the man who played it. His grief, his love, his longing poured through the strings, and thus his music shook the foundations of the world. This is the essence of Corgan’s teaching: the technology of the lyre was nothing; the artistry of Orpheus was everything.

In our own time, it is easy to be blinded by the dazzle of machines. We see concerts filled with lasers, screens, and synthetic sound. We see images crafted by algorithms and stories shaped by programs. Yet if the heart of the artist is absent, these works fade as quickly as they shine. They impress the eye for a moment but leave the soul empty. The danger is not in the technology itself — for it can be a mighty servant — but in forgetting that it was made to serve, not to rule.

Corgan’s words are also a warning to creators: do not lose yourself in the tools. The brush is not the painter. The camera is not the storyteller. The stage lights are not the song. If the world remembers only the machinery and not the hand, the vision, the heart behind it, then the work has failed. The artist must always be the flame, and the technology only the lamp through which the flame is seen.

History gives us countless examples of this truth. When cinema first arose, many were captivated by the marvel of moving images. Yet it was not the invention itself that endured, but the works of visionaries like Chaplin, who used the tool to tell stories of laughter and sorrow that still speak to us today. The marvel of the motion picture camera was temporary; the artistry of storytelling is eternal.

Thus, the lesson is clear: embrace technology as your ally, but never mistake it for your soul. Cultivate your vision, your voice, your inner fire. Let the tools serve your purpose, but let the world hear your truth, not the hum of the machine. To those who create: do not hide behind the brilliance of devices; stand forth as the artist, and let your humanity be the story.

Therefore, let the listener act with resolve: when you write, when you paint, when you sing, ask yourself — does the world see the tool, or do they feel the soul behind it? Choose always the latter. For technology may fade with time, but the artist’s vision, once born, has the power to outlast centuries. This is the wisdom of Billy Corgan, and it is the eternal law of creation.