on one hand, nobody is entitled to ai generated art because their disability prevents them from making it, because As It Stands Now, ai models are built off stolen artwork. there is not a SINGLE (publicly available at least) ai model trained off art that was willingly given to the model by the artist, and using the current models only helps exasperate this problem
on the other hand going "well i/this famous artist was disabled and THEY figured out how to make art, so its condescending to say that some disabled people CANT make art, and if ur disabled just figure it out :)" is the kind of rhetoric that time and time again hurts disabled people wrt the "well if THEY can do it, so can YOU" false dichotomy and really should not be used to make your point
& i say this as a disabled artist who absolutely does not like ai art, ESPECIALLY used in a commercial sphere. on paper it would be a fun Fucking Around Machine (esp if there was a bot trained on consentually aquired art) but capitalism requires every last scrap of revenue be squeezed out of anything like blood from a stone so we cant just have a fun thing to have a fun thing and we have shit things like it being a threat to peoples' liveliehoods and training it to mimic dead artists. and we cant really have the fun part without feeding into the bad part. what im saying is its a shame also maybe bootstrap theory is not good
58 notes
·
View notes
I’d be interested in a non exr fic rec list
ok yes sorry this took a while to answer, i wanted to get through some fics on my tbr before posting it :)
The Pursuit of Light | enjolras & feuilly | 3.3k
"Let's start with the first conjugation," Enjolras says, taking up the pen beside him and scribbling down a list of words Feuilly is entirely unfamiliar with. "I hope my handwriting isn't too arcane."
True Fraternity | enjolras & feuilly | 2k
When Feuilly goes on a trip with his bourgeois friends to practice shooting, he feels increasingly out of place.
Farouche | combeferre/enjolras | 0.8k
Enjolras and Combeferre's friendly debate about love, family structures, and women goes a wee tiny bit off the rails, and Enjolras reacts even more severely to being hit on when he's interested than when he's not.
Driven Like the Snow | éponine/marius, éponine/montparnasse | 2.9k
The night after the Gorbeau robbery, Eponine wanders the streets of Paris.
Unravel | éponine/marius | 18.2k
Éponine Thénardier can "unravel" time--jump backward a few minutes or hours and let events play out again, sometimes slightly different from before. It's a secret little thing that she uses occasionally, to get herself out of trouble or avoid minor accidents. She's never tried to do anything big with it because, on the whole, she's happy with her life--her family's inn is successful, they live in a nice neighborhood in Paris, and she's in love with a kind and beautiful boy named Marius.
But when her lover is killed on the barricades of the June Rebellion, she has to try to fix it--even if it means using her power on a scale she's never dreamed of. Even if it means throwing away everything else she has.
Under a Moonlit Sky | bahorel/fantine | 25.1k
The year is 1817. After Félix Tholomyès' little suprise, a despairing Fantine thinks she might go to her hometown of M-sur-M to find work. Instead, she decides to find Tholomyès and make him acknowledge Cosette. Enter a young man who would love to have an excuse to travel South (as far away from the law faculty as possible) and is uniquely suited to hunting down terrible men...
In Which Is To Be Learned The Name of Enjolras's Fake Fiancée | cosette & enjolras | 52.3k (unfinished)
It was true, Cosette allowed, that he was nothing at all like the beautiful young man from the Luxembourg, but she must not judge him unkindly for that. The world was full of young men, and it would be quite tedious if all the handsome ones were handsome in the same way.
36 notes
·
View notes
Placing such a hard time limit using the Calamity was exceptionally good and also inherent to the tragedy of it and im thrilled by it. Don't get me wrong, forced time limits in tragedies and doomsday stories are common for a reason. They work, and they work well. but just, within the context of EXU Calamity, its really getting me.
because its always about not having enough time, right? its about expecting that you'll have more. There's complacency with power, and mistakes, and wealth, but maybe what the Ring of Brass were most indulgent with was time.
(you always think you'll have enough time, more time, another replenishment, another deal, another broadcast, another batch of bright children. youll get another time to hash out an argument with your father. you'll get another time to stay home with your kids and get to know them. you'll get another time to apologize and explain and fix your broken relationship. there's just something else, right here, right now, that should get done first.)
The Ring of Brass were rich, in so many ways. They had power, and wealth, and a million responsibilities, and so maybe they would've argued they had ZERO time, actually, and they just needed to sort everything else out first, and they'd have enough time to figure everything else out later.
but that's the point, right? There's never really a good time for this. for the important stuff, or the end of the world.
(Laerryn was, perhaps, the primary person in the Ring Of Brass operating under a time limit from the get-go, trying desperately to get the Leyline working, because if it wasn't now, it would be never. Because Quay wouldn't live that long. But even she assumed that was the extent of the time limit, that for Everything Else, there would still be time.)
(And is that such a ridiculous expectation? Is that so foolish of her? Of all of them? You never expect the world to end. You don't have infinite time, sure, but- you've got tomorrow, or next week, or- just not now.)
And so it is tragic, but it is also weirdly satisfying, to see the way time got shattered and stretched and sped throughout that last episode. The first second lasted forty minutes. They get maybe two hours at the hands of a damned demon, and its the best blessing they've ever had. Rounds are six seconds. A broadcast is maybe thirty. A healing word, a Wish, a Wall of Force, all buying paltry seconds that make all the difference. The dawn is coming, Avalir is landing, there's so much that has to be done, and that won't get done. We watch them make hard decisions, over and over, and over, and we keep saying "there's not enough time". Because of course there isn't. There could never have been.
246 notes
·
View notes
Marcel has a way of getting things done, no matter what anyone else really wants to do about it. Tavish isn’t all too sure how he ended up here, one of two seated on a luxury private jet, chugging a steady stream of cocktails he’s already forgetting the prissy names of, using up vacation days he hasn’t had since the lawsuit, but every time he looks up at Marcel sitting across from him and slowly poring through a pile of travel magazines it just makes sense.
And well he knew what he was getting himself into in the first place—you can’t really trust a lad with a watch collection, who fancies sunglasses indoors as a slick and appropriate fashion choice, to not want to spring a trip to somewhere stiff and wealthy at nowhere, equator at every feasible opportunity.
What he lacks in natural cuteness the man makes up for in the strange ability to make anything and everything sound like the most important, life-changing thing you’ve ever considered doing. Not to mention all the well I’ll just go on my own, Tavish, another lonely soul adrift in the whirlpool of solitude, Tavish, and you can stay here and keep working since I know that’s more important to you than anything else, anything at all. And so, curse his natural susceptibility to guilt, Tavish found himself here about an hour later, since all his things were conveniently already arranged in a suitcase on his bed. What a surprise.
Something about dating the French. Marcel looks up at him, and slowly outstretches one expertly fitted leather glove across the aisle, sets it down on his hand, and says: "Tavish, mon beau. Look at this."
And then an awkward shuffling-around of the magazine he's holding with only one hand, until Tavish can see a limp page advertising--well, he assumes it's advertising some sort of spa getaway, using a lot of words he doesn't really recognize, and a completely unrelated picture underneath of dolphins turning in the waves. "The Pacific Pearl package," another pertinent tap at a flowery subsection, "one of the highest-reviewed couple's massage experiences on the continent."
'Highest reviewed'. Tavish knows he's talking it up but on the off-chance he's not he decides it's not worth the risk of breaking his poor wee heart. "Mmm. Wow," sucking down something green out of a cocktail glass. Tastes like watermelon. "That sounds great."
And here Marcel's eyebrows pitch just a little bit and oh, here it comes. "Of course, we would have to give up bungee-jumping if we wanted to slot this into the schedule--"
"Nope. Good try." There it is. "Bungee-jumping is non-bloody-negotiable." Tavish sets his glass down on the table so he can point accusingly, since Marcel's still rubbing treacherous circles into his other hand. "You gave me two… experiences to plan," god he hates that word, "and by god, we're stickin' by 'em. And that also goes for--"
"Scuba diving. I'm aware." Marcel wilts, just a little. "With the sharks. And the jellyfish. And the--"
"Anemone, killer minnows, flesh-eating sandskippers, vicious brain-melting amoebas, I know, Marce."
"You need to relax, mon coeur. Not… get your adrenaline pumping out in the wild. That's all I'm getting at."
Tavish sighs. "I can relax and have a little fun repeatedly jumping off cliffs, those two things aren't mutually bloody exclusive. And you," he says, triumphantly, "you gotta live a little. I can't be the only fun one in this relationship. It's stiflin' me growth as a person."
"I'm fun." Marcel rears back, maybe genuinely offended, though of course you can never tell with him. "I'm very fun."
"Well let's prove it, then."
Marcel opens his mouth, and then it flops shut and he leans back against the seat, pulling his hand back and crossing his arms.
It might be a bad time, but Tavish quietly adds: "Thoughts on parasailing?"
"You're on thin ice."
"Understood."
24 notes
·
View notes