Cover: Don Quixote, 1955 by Pablo Picasso
I receive, mostly Mondays, complaints from wannabe-authors of TBR about the use of AI-generated illustrations on our website. “You shouldn’t do that! There are artists looking for work! You can get free illustrations if you just credit the artist. And so on.”
I understand. I studied art for 4 years, and I still paint (when I take a break from complaining in here). But I also know that such laments are not new.
When Gutenberg unveiled the printing press, it was proclaimed that it would spread the devil’s work. When photography emerged, painters feared their relevance was doomed. Television, the internet, even digital music—all faced the same artistic panic. Yet none of these innovations destroyed art. They redefined it, emphasized its uniqueness and beauty.
What we are witnessing right now with AI-generated images is not the death of artistic expression; it is the evolution of the art’s tools. To mourn the loss of the old brush while ignoring the potential of the new is to misunderstand the history of creativity and embrace the principles of Don Quixote by Cervantes and start fighting with the windmills.
To accuse artificial intelligence of “killing” art is to ignore the long arc of human creativity—an arc that has always bent toward innovation. We began with stone tools and cave paintings. They were once the pinnacle of human ingenuity: chipped flint, obsidian blades, hand axes. But we do not mourn their obsolescence. We mastered bronze, iron, steel—and now silicon. We no longer use stone tools in daily life, yet we preserve them in museums and teach about them in schools, not because they are still practical, but because they mark a stage in our cultural evolution. They, the originals, are worth a ton of money not because they are impossible to make today, but for who made them.
My compatriot, Agim Sulaj (6 years my signor at the same school), with his hyperrealism, will put to shame, technically, any great master of the Enlightenment… but it doesn’t. What he is doing is already done with photography; that’s why he has moved on to surrealism now.
Gutenberg’s printing press was introduced in the 15th century; it was met with fear and disdain. It was enabling heresy! The mass reproduction of books would flood the world with corrupting ideas—“the devil’s work.” And yet, it was the press that democratized knowledge, catalyzed the Reformation, and gave rise to the modern public sphere.
When photography arrived in the 19th century, traditional painters—particularly those who specialized in realism—saw their commissions vanish. Some decried the camera as a mechanical thief of artistic skill. But others, like the Impressionists, embraced a different vision. They explored mood, color, and fleeting perception—territory that the camera could not reach. Photography didn’t destroy painting; it forced it to redefine itself.
The same happened with cinema and theatre, television and cinema, and now digital art. Each time, we have proclaimed the end of artistry.
AI image generation is only the latest chapter in this ongoing saga. It is not the end of illustration—it is a new kind of brush. What matters is not whether an image was created by hand, code, or algorithm, but whether it speaks, provokes, resonates. At The Brussels Review, when we use AI-generated visuals, we do so deliberately, thoughtfully, with curatorial and commercial intent. These images are not arbitrary outputs; they are shaped by literary themes, aesthetic criteria, and human judgment. The machine may generate, but it does not interpret. That remains our domain.
To be an artist is not to resist change. It is to absorb it, question it, and transform it. We do not lament the stone tool; we study it, honor it, and then we move forward.
But let’s go back to the initial thoughts of this piece: the complaint.
A pervasive delusion persists in today’s discourse on creativity: that every artist is entitled to a place, a platform, a pedestal. This is simply not true; it never was. Before photography and film, only a select few artists (usually the most exceptional or the most connected) had their work displayed or preserved. Visibility in the arts has always been rare, competitive, and often brutal. The gallery is not a public service; it is a shrine to distinction.
To argue today that every artistic output deserves equal exposure is to mistake art for therapy. There is no equity in art, only merit. You are either worthy of being seen, or you are not. What makes a work worthy? Its originality, its technical precision, its conceptual force. And still all is open to debate. But the idea that all creative efforts should be showcased simply because they exist is not a serious proposition. It is a fantasy.
At The Brussels Review, we do not make space for artwork because it was made by a human instead of an algorithm, or because it comes from a particular identity. We use illustrations to emphasize the written word, not because it demands to be seen. If you believe your art belongs in our pages, we welcome you to submit it. But be prepared to stand out.
But if you want to understand our visual philosophy, look no further than the covers of our printed editions. There you will find our aesthetic values laid bare: ambiguity over sentimentality, sharpness over indulgence, restraint over noise. Our use of AI in illustration is not a gimmick; it is an extension of that vision—a refusal to cling to tradition when newer tools offer precision, texture, and atmosphere that align with the literary tone we cultivate.
In the end, TBR is not a charity for “emerging” artists. If you want to “emerge,” you submit your work. We don’t owe you space; we are not your mama.
