AI has changed content creation forever.
I wrote a blog post and used an AI engine called Descript to narrate it in a voice simulating my own. You can read it, listen to it, or both.
I’ve also included a video of real-life me, filmed with my iPhone, narrating the blog post. You can compare the two.
Video of my simulated voice, narrating the blog post ☝
Video of me in real life narrating the blog post ☝
The backstory.
I typed out the blog post on my keyboard. I then fed the text into Descript — an AI engine that’s learned my voice. Because of this technology, you, the reader, can either read the story in the traditional sense, or you can hit the play button and hear my familiar voice read it.
I say familiar voice, because you’ll recognize it as me; you’ll also recognize it as not me — at least for now.
I’m willing to bet that in the near future you will have a hard time telling the difference between my real voice and my simulated voice — this is the way of technology.
When I think about the future of content creation, I think of the word “accessible.”
Technology is making content more accessible for creators and consumers.
For most content creators, recording actual narration of their articles and blogs posts is time-consuming and unrealistic. Bloggers, with hundreds of articles, aren’t going to go back and narrate every post they’ve ever written. With this technology they won’t have to.
Thanks to companies like Descript, I believe we’re in the midst of a shift in how content is created, edited, published, and consumed. It’s all becoming more accessible.
Oh, by the way, I narrated a 30 minute script (from the Wizard of Oz - it was gnarly) in order for Descript’s AI to learn my voice.
I’ve recently submitted a supplementary 30 minute script (I think that one was taken from a David Attenborough film - also gnarly). In theory if I process the text again it’ll sound a little more like my actual voice.
I’ll keep the original audio file here and add the new and improved voice when I have it.
Technology drives nostalgia.
My 2005-2006 photography class. I’m in the bottom left corner.
I’m old enough to remember when photography involved chemicals rather than digital sensors. I’d load black and white 35mm film cartridges into the back of my dads old SLR camera; 36 images per cartridge. Those cartridges had a distinct smell that I now associate with artistic potential. At least, my sense of nostalgia associates that smell with artistic potential. The limitation of 36 images, and having to wait to see them was half the fun.
I’d wander the halls of my high school, my backpack over my shoulder and my camera around my neck. If I saw something inspiring, I’d lift the camera, squint through the viewfinder with my left eye and close my right eye — moving myself around to get the perfect composition. Sometimes I’d look through that viewfinder for so long that when I returned to reality, I’d have trouble seeing — everything was blurred and out of focus.
In the tech room at my high school, which was torn down a few years ago, we had a table that held a single box on top of it. The box had black gloves that reached into it, which made it look like one of those boxes you see on Sci-fi movies, where the scientists are experimenting on a volatile alien substance and need to avoid direct contact. If you want to feel important, try loading a roll of 35mm film from a cartridge into a developing tank using a black box like that.
And then there was the dark room; that beautifully mysterious place, where you could really feel the magic. It was quiet, like a library, and even the most juvenile high schooler recognized it as a sacred place. To keep the room safe from outside light, a c shaped all-black hallway was the only entrance and exit. A single red lightbulb illuminated the room, so us humans could see without accidentally exposing the expensive papers that would become photographic prints.
To make a print, we’d shine a light through a chosen film negative onto a piece of photographic paper. The paper, pregnant with light sensitive chemicals, was exposed to the light for a set time, and under careful attention; then it was placed in a tray filled with clear liquid called developer. The image would begin to take shape; first like an aberration, shadowy and undefined. But as we looked we’d begin to recognize the image — it became coherent and tangible — real. At the right moment, when the image was fully defined, we’d pull it out of the developer and place it in a stop, another clear liquid — I remember the faint smell of vinegar during this whole process. Finally, we’d place it in a third tray of liquid called fix, and pull it out to hang dry.
One print from one negative; zero additional copies, unless you wanted to go through the entire printing process again.
Maybe all of this is only nostalgic to me, because it was magical at the time. I was a kid developing my personal artwork with someone else’s resources. I imagine a good supply of professional photographers were terrorized by the fear of the whole thing going sideways during an important assignment. For me, photography was one of the best experiences at school, untainted with pressures of work expectations; enjoying the process for it’s own sake. I’m intentionally leaving out the challenges of proving myself to my photography teacher who I had a fair share of head butting with.
The world of image creation has changed dramatically since I first stepped out of that darkroom with a photographic print — but the main thing has stayed the same. I now produce more video than photography— all digital, and almost entirely for clients. Despite the changes in technology, human beings continue to hold tightly to our love of stories. At it’s core, great photography is great story; compelling images invite us into another world, if only momentarily, and give us something to hold on to — something beautiful, thought-provoking, or inspirational. It’s the same with great movies, great writing, and great podcasts. The technique and the technology changes, but it all holds the same magical power of story.
New technology soon becomes old technology; young people soon become old people. They begin to reflect on the early days through rose-tinted glass, telling the kids how difficult and glorious those days were — always with a glint of pride in their eye.
I’ve been there, sonny; If only you had been there, you’d be misty eyed too.
This promo video from Descript was fun, clever, and clearly articulated. I think you’ll appreciate it.