It has been a somewhat discomforting experience trying to write this review because of the current trends and attitudes circling about Artificial Intelligence. As a librarian I’ve made the observation that when it comes to information technology, librarians are both early adopters and early critics. So it is with AI. Like the whole idea of computing it was demonized, then lionized and now skepticized. So don’t get me wrong.
Amy Kurzweil’s Artificial is a graphic memoir that expands the possibilities of the form, weaving together themes of memory, family, and technology with remarkable depth. At its heart, the book is a meditation on familial love across three generations of artists, particularly focused on the author’s grandfather, Fred Kurzweil, a conductor and pianist who fled Nazi-occupied Austria, and her father, Ray Kurzweil, a futurist and AI pioneer. Through intricate, meticulously rendered pen-and-ink drawings, Amy Kurzweil explores the nature of remembering—both through human memory and the artificial constructs we create to hold onto the past.
One of the book’s most striking aspects is its engagement with archival materials which delights librarians like myself. Kurzweil has a way of integrating handwritten letters, newspaper clippings, and other physical remnants of her family's history that gives the narrative a tangible weight. As she and her father attempt to recreate her grandfather’s voice through an AI chatbot trained on his voluminous notes and correspondences, the book raises profound questions: When do our loved ones truly leave us? How much of a person can be captured through technology? What remains of us when we are gone?
These are questions that make Artificial a work of immense emotional and intellectual power. Kurzweil resists easy answers, and the interactions with the AI-generated version of her grandfather are often fraught with both insight and inadequacy. The chatbot is sometimes a fascinating conduit for memory, sometimes an unsettling simulacrum, highlighting the limitations of technology in capturing the nuances of human life.
Yet, while the book succeeds as an exploration of family, memory, and loss, it also touches upon the unease surrounding artificial intelligence in creative fields. Many artists see AI-generated art as a threat—whether through the risk of plagiarism, job displacement, or the loss of human touch in artistic creation. Writers, too, fear that AI could erode originality, introducing misinformation or blurring ethical boundaries. These anxieties loom in the background of Artificial, even if Kurzweil herself does not explicitly condemn AI’s role in art. Instead, the book offers a deeply personal, reflective approach, allowing readers to sit with their own discomfort and wonder at the possibilities—both inspiring and troubling—that AI presents.
Interestingly, some of AI’s creative shortcomings are being addressed—or at least explored—through advancements in quantum computing. Unlike classical AI, which operates on deterministic algorithms, quantum computing introduces randomness, potentially allowing for more dynamic and unpredictable responses. This could make future AI interactions feel more nuanced, perhaps even more "human-like." Whether such developments will ever truly replicate the richness of human memory and emotion remains an open question, but they point to a future where the boundaries between technology and creativity may continue to shift.
Kurzweil’s work is an essential contribution to contemporary graphic nonfiction. With its deeply intimate reflections and powerful visual storytelling, Artificial stands as a testament to the ways in which we try—through art, technology, and memory—to hold onto the people we love. It is a book that lingers, much like the voices of the past it seeks to preserve.
Thank you for such thoughtful and intelligent engagement with my book. I really appreciate it!