In February, I spent a day at the Valuing Human Creativity in the Age of AI conference in Ottawa—an event that brought together artists, writers, technologists, and policymakers to wrestle with a question that feels increasingly urgent: What happens to human creativity in an era when machines can produce words, images, music, and video in seconds? And what does it all mean to freelancers?

And as it turns out, the answers are complicated. The day included presentations from artists and organizations representing a broad field. One of the most memorable discussions came from professional illustrators, an area I admittedly know little about. As it turns out, my lack of artistic know-how wasn’t a barrier to understanding how quickly AI has disrupted their creative work.

The illustrators, Jean-Paul Eid and Félix Moreau, explained that many generative image tools are trained on vast archives of existing artwork—much of it created by working artists such as themselves. In practical terms, this means illustrators are now competing against themselves via systems that learned from their own past work. Yet when it comes to competing on quotes and estimates, AI tools will always have the edge because it's free. What makes the situation particularly painful is that illustrators have historically been enthusiastic adopters of technology. Digital tools, software platforms, and new production techniques have long been part of the profession and now it rather feels like their craft is being cannibalized by some of the tools they helped develop and refine. 

However, the conference wasn’t only about disruption. It also highlighted thoughtful, ethical approaches to using AI. One especially inspiring presentation came from the team at Heritage Lab, which is working with northern communities to preserve Inuktut language and culture using AI-supported tools. One thing that has really stuck with me since their presentation are statistics they shared about Indigenous language use in private homes. In inland communities, Inuktut is widely used. In some areas, that usage is 90% or even higher. However, in coastal communities, that percentage can be as low as in the 20% range. This proved their point that languages can suffer or thrive based on how they’re protected and how they process external influences. 

Their approach to language preservation places community priorities at the centre of the work. Instead of simply gathering data and feeding it into models, they are focusing on data sovereignty—ensuring communities retain control over their cultural knowledge. Equally important, they are prioritizing compensation for community members whose voices, stories, and language expertise make the project possible. 

That distinction felt important. Throughout the day, speakers returned to the idea that the ethical questions surrounding AI are not really about the tools themselves. They’re about the systems we build around them—who benefits, who is credited, and who is paid.

The conference also included remarks from David Myles—a Member of Parliament and Juno Award–winning musician—who spoke movingly about the deeper purpose of creativity.

“Creativity is not a prompt,” he said. “It is a process.” It might sound rather trite but his words were absolutely electrifying and you could feel the energy in the room shift. 

Myles noted, art helps us process both suffering and joy. It’s one of the ways we understand ourselves and each other. Creative work—whether it’s writing a travel essay, composing music, or illustrating a children’s book—is rarely a straight line from idea to finished product. It is shaped by lived experience and by the ways we make meaning from the world around us. You could really tell how much it meant to everyone in the room that a politician actually understood what it was like to be a working artist. He got it and he got us.

Myles also referenced how agile artists are, giving the example of how so many creative people pivoted in the pandemic to find new ways to work. It was a really important reminder that technology doesn’t drive innovation. Artists do. 

What I took away from the day was perspective. AI will undoubtedly change the way creative work is produced and distributed. In many fields, it already has. But the human impulse to create—to tell stories, make images, write songs, and share ideas—remains remarkably resilient. Tools will change. Technologies will come and go. The process of creativity, however, is still deeply, irreducibly human.