‘AI vs Ghibli’ at what cost? Northeast artists raise red flag

Social media feeds have witnessed countless fleeting obsessions, from the Ice Bucket Challenge to the Harlem Shake, from Dalgona coffee to viral TikTok dances set to ephemeral chart-toppers. Remember when everyone was doing the “Renegade”? Or when “Savage” by Megan Thee Stallion dominated every scroll? These digital fascinations materialise overnight and vanish just as quickly, leaving barely a cultural footprint in their wake.

Yet the recent explosion of AI-generated Ghibli-style portraits represents something more significant than just another passing fad. As users worldwide transformed their pictures into dreamy anime characters reminiscent of Hayao Miyazaki’s iconic style, what emerged wasn’t merely another ephemeral distraction but a digital battleground where questions of artistic integrity, cultural appropriation, and technological ethics collide.

“Many people don’t know what that means. Those who are following this trend of turning their pictures into ‘Ghibli,’ out of those only two out of ten people know about Ghibli or even heard about this term,” observes Prince Basumatary, an art enthusiast from Northeast India. His observation cuts to the heart of the issue: a style meticulously developed over decades has been reduced to a one-click filter by people who may have never even seen a Studio Ghibli film.

Studio Ghibli stands as a colossus in Japanese animation, an institution founded in 1985 by directors Hayao Miyazaki and Isao Takahata, along with producer Toshio Suzuki. Their works are celebrated not just for their enchanting narratives but for their distinct visual aesthetic: hand-drawn animation featuring watercolour-like backgrounds, detailed attention to natural elements, and characters with profoundly expressive eyes that convey subtle emotional states. Each frame in a Ghibli film represents countless hours of painstaking human effort, a philosophy directly opposed to the instant gratification of algorithmic art generation.

This trend stands as just one example of how artificial intelligence has begun reshaping our relationship with creativity, particularly in regions like Northeast India, where traditional and indigenous art forms hold deep cultural significance. The question is no longer whether AI can generate compelling visual content, because clearly it can, but rather what we lose when we embrace efficiency over the human touch.

How Ghibli went viral

Social media trends operate on a peculiar logic of their own- unpredictable, explosive, and often divorced from their original context. Just as “Gangnam Style” once dominated global consciousness before fading into obscurity, or how sea shanties inexplicably captured TikTok’s imagination during lockdown, the AI-Ghibli portrait trend exemplifies this phenomenon perfectly. Users simply uploaded their photos to various AI art generators programmed to mimic the distinctive aesthetic of Studio Ghibli animations, characterised by soft colour palettes, expressive eyes, and dreamlike natural backgrounds.

“How this trend went viral out of the blue shocked me as well. So my reaction went from ‘It looks beautiful and cute. Looks exactly like Ghibli’ to ‘C’mon people enough already!’ It is impressive at first but worrisome as well,” Basumatary continues, capturing the trajectory from novelty to oversaturation that defines most viral trends.

What makes this particular trend noteworthy is not just its popularity but its implications. Unlike dance challenges or comedy skits, AI art generation directly impacts the livelihoods of working artists. When an algorithm can produce in seconds what would take a human artist hours or days, what exactly are we valuing when we consume art?

Indigenous art in the age of algorithms

Northeast India doesn’t just have art; it lives and breathes it. Creativity here isn’t decoration; it’s survival, memory, and spirit. From Assam’s sacred Vrindavani Vastra textiles to Arunachal Pradesh’s ritual Thangka paintings, art isn’t tucked away in galleries; it’s stitched, painted, and carved into everyday life.

In Nagaland, Manipur, Tripura, Sikkim, Mizoram, and Meghalaya, art and life are inseparable. Textiles, woodwork, metal, and ceremonial objects carry stories, serve daily needs, and hold spiritual weight, all at once.

These aren’t frozen traditions; they shift, adapt, and evolve. But now, artists rooted in these lineages are facing a new challenge: when machines can imitate style in seconds, what happens to the meaning behind the making?

Phaibhakupar Kharlukhi, known as ‘Coops,’ who transitioned his photographic experience into oil painting, offers a sobering assessment: “Traditional arts in the northeast are very young compared to hundreds of years as practiced by other parts of India and the world. We just started our journey to the art world, and AI came right when the generations were about to flourish. I feel the platform for them is getting smaller and smaller.”

This sentiment echoes across the region’s artistic community. Just as Northeast Indian artists like Raphael Warjri were gaining recognition in national and international spaces, the ground beneath their feet has shifted. The advent of AI art generators threatens to compress the market for commissioned work and devalue the years of training that artists invest in developing their skills.

Mario Pathaw, a multidisciplinary designer and PhD scholar at IIT Guwahati, frames the issue in historical context: “That’s how industrial revolution happened, and that’s why the Arts and Crafts movement happened, because machines were taking over.” His observation reminds us that the tension between human craftsmanship and mechanical reproduction is nothing new, though the sophistication of today’s AI presents challenges of a different magnitude.

The ‘soul’ question: What does AI art lack?

A recurring theme in conversations with artists about AI-generated art is the concept of “soul”, that ineffable quality that distinguishes work created by human hands and minds from that produced by algorithms.

“AI lacks soul,” Pathaw states bluntly. “Artists have that human touch in it. Artificial Intelligence cannot achieve human level of emotions.”

This sentiment is echoed by Nijwm Koch, a digital artist from Tikrikila in West Garo Hills, Meghalaya, who describes AI-generated Ghibli images as “entirely soulless” and argues that “they don’t tell a story, they simply convert existing images into a particular art style.”

But what exactly constitutes this “soul” that artists refer to? It appears to encompass several dimensions: the intentionality behind every brushstroke or line, the emotional investment that accompanies the creative process, an artist’s personal history and experiences that inevitably inform their work, the specific cultural context from which art emerges, and even the “mistakes” that often lead to innovation.

Japanese animation has long been celebrated for its “soul”, the emotional resonance that studios like Ghibli infuse into their work. Miyazaki’s films often explore profound themes like environmentalism, pacifism, and the complexity of human nature, all while maintaining a distinctively Japanese aesthetic sensibility. When AI attempts to replicate this style without understanding its cultural and philosophical underpinnings, something essential is inevitably lost.

Gerry Adam D. Shira (alias “the broke artist”), an artist working primarily on digital canvases, and founder of Living Ethnic, emphasises this point: “Art isn’t only about drawing or painting something or someone on paper, it’s mainly about the joy you get by creating these. AI takes away most of it from an artist and the consumer as well.”

Tributes or theft: The ethics of style appropriation

When an AI system is trained on Miyazaki’s distinctive visual language- a style developed through decades of painstaking work- without explicit permission, where does homage end and appropriation begin?

Koch doesn’t mince words: “When I first saw AI-generated Ghibli-style images, I felt it was disrespectful to Mr Miyazaki, who dedicated years of effort to developing the Ghibli style.”

This sentiment resonates with Miyazaki himself, who, when shown AI-generated animation in a 2016 documentary, called it “an awful insult to life itself.” For many artists, the issue isn’t simply about copyright but about respect for creative legacy.

Pathaw offers a more nuanced take, distinguishing between casual users and the companies behind AI art generators: “Maybe they did not intend to hurt or be dismissive or disrespectful to his works because they do not know, they just jumped into the trend, however, the application makers or the application holders or the application owners are the ones who actually are insulting his works.”

This distinction raises important questions about responsibility in the AI art ecosystem. While individual users might simply be participating in a trend without malicious intent, the companies developing these tools are making deliberate choices about whose artistic styles they train their algorithms to replicate, often without compensation or acknowledgment.

Japanese art forms, in particular, have frequently been subject to appropriation and simplification in global popular culture. From the reductive understanding of ukiyo-e prints to the commercialisation of manga and anime aesthetics, Western engagement with Japanese art has often lacked depth and context. The AI-Ghibli trend represents a new iteration of this pattern, one made more problematic by its automated nature and potential economic impact.

The economic impact: Artists in a shrinking marketplace

Beyond philosophical and ethical concerns lies a pressing economic reality: AI-generated art threatens the livelihoods of working artists, particularly those from regions already marginalised in the global art market.

“Well, it does impact us in a negative way,” explains Shira. “With AI being available to everyone, it’s easily preferred over any traditional artist; it’s free, it’s faster, and you could make unlimited changes. People don’t value the vision that artists bring with themselves and would rather stick to something that saves them money as long as it works.”

Koch adds that as a digital artist, he finds it “increasingly difficult to get commissions in this era of AI. Especially in the past few days, people have been generating AI images- even paying for them- while choosing not to hire real artists for custom portraits.”

This economic displacement is particularly concerning for artists from Northeast India, a region that has historically faced obstacles to participation in mainstream Indian art markets due to geographical isolation, political marginalisation, and cultural differences.

Strategic responses to AI art

Faced with the reality of AI art generators, artists are developing various approaches to maintain their relevance and protect their livelihoods. Some, like Coops, advocate for the strategic incorporation of AI tools: “Yes, AI is useful. As a traditional canvas artist, I’ve also been working with MidJourney and Stable Diffusion for the past two years. Personally, it expands my vision, and as a tool, it really helps when I work alongside it.”

Others advocate for clear distinctions between AI-generated images and human-created art. Koch argues that “AI-generated images should be credited differently from human-made art. The fairest way to do that is by not calling AI-generated images ‘art’ at all.”

Basumatary suggests that while AI art offers “new possibilities, and it does serve as a tool for inspiration,” it’s essential to recognise its limitations. He lists several concerns about collaboration with AI, including “lack of depth, copyright issues, ownership ambiguity, authenticity and loss of creative control.”

Pathaw offers perhaps the most optimistic assessment: “When it comes to creating new art styles, only the artists themselves can truly carry that forward.”

What are we willing to pay for?

A telling indicator of how we truly value art appears in the marketplace. Pathaw poses a provocative question: “Let’s say you’re buying a piece of art and you ask, ‘How much is it?’ They say, let’s say, 12,000 rupees. It’s an AI-generated image. Would you pay 12,000 rupees for that? Or imagine a local artist from Sohra- hand-drawn, hand-painted, created an art from scratch. As a traditional artist, I’m sure people would prefer to buy that instead.”

His confidence suggests a belief that when significant money is involved, people instinctively recognise the superior value of human-created art. Yet the market realities described by other artists paint a more complex picture- one where clients increasingly opt for the convenience and cost-effectiveness of AI-generated images over commissioned works.

Shira argues that this shift reflects a broader devaluation of artistic labour: “Most people don’t realise the joy of actually having someone spend their time and skills painting them, and after the introduction of AI creating them in minutes, they’ll just end up valuing an artist’s work even less.”

The question becomes not just what art is worth in monetary terms but what aspects of art we as a society deem valuable- the efficiency of production, the uniqueness of vision, the cultural significance, or the human connection it fosters.

Coexistence or conflict?

As AI art tools grow more sophisticated, artists, particularly emerging voices from the Northeast, are navigating how to stay relevant in a rapidly evolving creative landscape. Many stress the importance of originality and intent, with Koch advising young artists to develop a unique style and “have a reason for creating it.”

While some view AI as a threat, others see potential for coexistence. Pathaw, for instance, believes that despite technological advances, people will still value and invest in art created by human hands.

Coops takes a grounded view, acknowledging AI’s utility but maintaining that there’s “something truly special” about making art with one’s own imagination. Together, these perspectives reveal a community weighing the opportunities and challenges of a hybrid creative future.

Beyond the trend

Like all social media trends- from the mannequin challenge to the brief reign of Clubhouse- the AI-Ghibli portrait fad will eventually fade, replaced by some new digital novelty. But the questions it raises about artistic value, cultural respect, and technological ethics will persist.

For artists from Northeast India, situated at the intersection of indigenous traditions and contemporary digital culture, these questions take on additional layers of complexity. How can traditional art forms maintain their relevance in an age of algorithmic creation? What aspects of indigenous aesthetics can never be adequately captured by an AI system trained primarily on Western and mainstream Asian art? How can artists from marginalised regions leverage new technologies without being displaced by them?

As the Northeast artistic community continues its journey in the global art world, the timing of AI’s rise presents both challenges and opportunities. Artists from this region may need to become particularly adept at defining and articulating the value that human creators bring, not just technical skill but cultural knowledge, personal vision, and authentic connection.

In the meantime, each AI-generated image that mimics the Ghibli style without acknowledging its origins serves as a reminder of what’s at stake. Not just jobs or market share, but something more fundamental: our collective understanding of what art is and why it matters.