Pinar Seyhan Demirdag and Shepard Fairey on Creativity in the Algorithmic Age at Canva Create

The sunlit stage could have easily been a quiet celebration of creativity’s future — but what unfolded was far more personal, radical, and intellectually expansive. At the intersection of art, technology, and identity, Pinar Seyhan Demirdag, Generative AI expert, co-founder and CEO of Cuebric, and Shepard Fairey, the legendary street artist and activist, shared a conversation that wove together generative AI, authorship, and what it truly means to make “real art.”

“I never thought I would be obsolete,” said Pinar, in a voice both certain and serene. “I never questioned whether what I was doing with AI was real art. I never believed that Google — or any technology — had authority over me.”

This wasn’t a panel about fear. It was a declaration of agency.

Life before the algorithm

Before leading her AI-native storytelling company, Pinar spent 11 years as a digital and conceptual artist. Her work has appeared in international museums and even spawned a furniture line in every ICA across the globe. But in 2019 — “back when dinosaurs still roamed the earth,” she joked — she collaborated with Google on one of the first generative AI art experiments.

In 2020, she produced the first generative AI visual effects for a feature film. In 2021, the first commercial. And then came Infinite Patterns — a tool she built so that even her mother could make something beautiful.

“I was overjoyed,” she said. “Not because AI could replicate my art. But because it could give that joy to someone else. That is what mattered.”

Her philosophy is clear: “AI cannot replace true vision. It can only expand it — accelerate it.”

Art as editing, not just expression

Shepard Fairey — whose iconic works often blur protest and pop — echoed this view from a different path.

“I think editing is probably the most undervalued aspect of creativity,” he said, reflecting on his early days in screen printing. “The process of tweaking, shifting contrast, trying a new halftone — that’s where the discovery is.”

For Shepard, art rarely arrives fully formed. Instead, it comes through “relentless experimentation,” and, often, a winding detour of revision. “I will land on something I think is right… then I question it. Try 10 more versions. Sometimes I circle back. Sometimes I break through.”

He doesn’t see AI as a shortcut. He sees it as a co-conspirator in that messy, iterative process — a tool that expands the number of directions, not the intent behind them.

The joy of getting lost

The evolution of Shepard’s now-famous André the Giant image into a critique of surveillance culture was a perfect case in point. “It started as a crude street sticker. Then I thought, ‘Let’s simplify this.’ And then — it took on a life of its own.”

As he abstracted, stylised, and idealised, the image morphed into something more potent. The journey didn’t follow a plan. It followed curiosity.

“I am so grateful I got lost in the art of creativity,” he said. “Because that’s where the magic happens.”

What Is Real Art?

When asked where the fear of AI comes from, Shepard was candid: “Well, my idea of real art doesn’t always align with the art world. Some folks have a vested interest in selling art that’s made a certain way — it is part of the business model.”

To him, real art is simpler. “It is something that achieves what you want it to achieve — in a captivating way. And that can be digital. It can live only on a screen. Since pop art and artists like Barbara Kruger, it has never just been about the medium. It is about intent.”

That ethos resonated across the stage: AI is not diluting art — it is helping redefine who gets to participate in it and how.

The equation of the self

And then came perhaps the most powerful moment of the day.

“Maybe I am a nice person. Or I am an angry person. That’s the output,” Pinar said.

“In AI, I simplified everything into one equation: dataset + algorithm = output.”

Working with Google, she noticed that when she did not like the outputs, they could not change the dataset — but they could change the algorithm. “So we did. And the outputs changed.”

That sparked something deeply personal.

“I began to wonder: if I want to change who I am — say, I don’t want to be angry anymore — is it the same thing? My memories are my dataset. My belief system is my algorithm. Together, they create my character.”

“I know it is a bit off-topic,” she added, smiling.

But it wasn’t. It was the soul of the discussion — the understanding that creativity, like consciousness, is an emergent process. Whether shaped by hands or by code, what matters most is the will behind the work.

A mirror, not a threat

From screen prints to neural networks, from sticker bombs to infinite patterns, this wasn’t a debate about whether AI is art. It was a meditation on what art really is — and always has been: intention, experimentation, and the courage to explore unknown paths.

AI may accelerate creation. It may even reflect parts of us we did not know were visible. But it cannot author meaning on its own.

That still belongs to us.