by Kyle Munkittrick
Silicon Valley has rediscovered ‘taste.’ Maybe it was Jony Ive at Stripe Sessions. Maybe it’s Substack aesthetes like Henry Oliver and David Hoang. Maybe it’s everyone trying to figure out if AI can have taste. But taste is, in every case, either ill or incorrectly defined, if at all. Let’s fix that.
Taste is the valuing of craft.
That is, taste is the ability to assess and appreciate a work based on deep understanding of techniques and skills used in the work’s creation, whether it’s a car, a novel, an app, a song, or an outfit.
In Jasmine Sun and Robin Sloan’s Utopia Debate…
by Kyle Munkittrick
Silicon Valley has rediscovered ‘taste.’ Maybe it was Jony Ive at Stripe Sessions. Maybe it’s Substack aesthetes like Henry Oliver and David Hoang. Maybe it’s everyone trying to figure out if AI can have taste. But taste is, in every case, either ill or incorrectly defined, if at all. Let’s fix that.
Taste is the valuing of craft.
That is, taste is the ability to assess and appreciate a work based on deep understanding of techniques and skills used in the work’s creation, whether it’s a car, a novel, an app, a song, or an outfit.
In Jasmine Sun and Robin Sloan’s Utopia Debate “Can AI have taste?”, Sun argued that if the YouTube or Spotify algorithm ever gave you a good recommendation, then yes AI has taste, because it understood and recreated your taste.
No. Algorithms understand your preferences. Taste is not your preferences. Preferences are, however, the thing most commonly conflated with taste.
Your preferences are intuitive taste—a starting point. Preferences rarely ever *fully *match with taste. That is what a guilty pleasure is! You like it even though you know it’s not good (Stranger Things), or hate it even though it is (Hemingway). Paying close attention to what you like is an excellent way of building taste. Preferences are a great signal that something might be good.
Rick and Evie appreciate something as well-crafted as they are.
The opening paragraph of Roger Ebert’s review of the Mummy is a perfect demonstration of his exceptional taste being in seeming conflict with his preferences:
There is within me an unslaked hunger for preposterous adventure movies. I resist the bad ones, but when a “Congo” or an “Anaconda” comes along, my heart leaps up and I cave in. “The Mummy” is a movie like that. There is hardly a thing I can say in its favor, except that I was cheered by nearly every minute of it. I cannot argue for the script, the direction, the acting or even the mummy, but I can say that I was not bored and sometimes I was unreasonably pleased. There is a little immaturity stuck away in the crannies of even the most judicious of us, and we should treasure it.
Ebert contrasts his judgement of the craft (script, direction, acting, effects) with his visceral delight. His pleasure was, by his own admission, unreasonable. That is, unlike many movies he loved, he cannot entirely explain or justify his delight.
There are a few ways to interpret this vis-a-vis taste. One is that taste isn’t objective or based on craft, it’s ineffable. Another is that Ebert didn’t have good enough taste to explain and justify why he liked The Mummy. Both of these are obvious nonsense. Read more »
Wednesday, March 12, 2025
by Scott Samuelson
Though I’m at best a mediocre tennis player, I’ve achieved something in the sport that the pros achieve only at their finest, which I’ve taken to calling “tennisosity,” a hybrid of “tennis” and “virtuosity.” I coined the term several years ago, in the sweaty aftermath of a match in which my opponent and I had entered into its state. Among my friends and family, the ugly term tennisosity has stuck—I suspect because it describes something vitally yet elusively important, something with an ethical and an aesthetic dimension that can apply to any meaningful human activity.
This is NOT a picture of my backhand.
Tennisosity (in the realm of tennis) is when you and your opponent are so well-matched that the competition not only raises both of your play to a higher level but perfectly realizes the game of tennis. The way I put it to my exhausted opponent was, “We just played the 2008 Wimbledon Final”—the battle between Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal, sometimes called the greatest match ever, where Nadal won his first Wimbledon against the defending champ (Federer had won the previous five straight, including the last two against Nadal). Even though neither my opponent nor I could return the serve of your average high school varsity tennis player, our rallies were just as dramatic as Federer’s and Nadal’s, each of us got to just as many shots that the other didn’t think could be gotten to, our aces were just as glorious, and our double faults were just as tragic—at least within the context of our game.
I admit that my backhand isn’t at the level of Roger Federer’s! I’m giggling at even drawing the comparison. By the normal metrics and standards of excellence in tennis, everything about my game is junk. Also, there was no public recognition riding on my match—not even the chintzy trophy of a local tournament, much less the engraved silver of the most storied competition in tennis. In fact, nobody was watching.
And yet, had others been watching us, I believe that their aesthetic experience of our tennis match would have been similar in kind to the great Wimbledon Final—obviously not concerning our individual skillsets but concerning what the interactive combination of our skillsets involved. My opponent and I had to dig deep again and again. The same kind of grit and imagination Federer and Nadal had to draw on, we had to draw on. The glory of tennis was on display for all to see—even though nobody happened to be there to see it. If I remember right, one of us cried. Read more »
Friday, July 26, 2024
by John Hartley
Augustine ponders the stolen pear
“To err is human,” observed the poet, Alexander Pope. Yet, why do we consciously choose to err from right action against our better judgement? Anyone who has tried to follow a diet or maintain a strict exercise regime will understand what can sometimes feel like an inner battle. Yet why do we stray from virtue, choosing paths we know will lead to inevitable suffering? Force of habit? Addiction? Weakness of will?
This crisis of moral choice lies at the heart of Western philosophy, as the Ancients crafted their doctrines to explain why individuals often fail to realize their good intentions. “For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out.” Observed St Paul, “For what I do is not the good I want to do; no, the evil I do not want to do–this I keep on doing.”
Akrasia in ancient thought
Homer’s Iliad paints a poignant portrait of humanity, ensnared in a cycle of necessity. This relentless loop can only be broken by wisdom and self-knowledge, encapsulated in the Delphic maxim “know thyself.” Socrates, however, argued that true knowledge of the good naturally precludes evil actions (If you really know what is right you will not do wrong!) He contends that misdeeds arise not from a willful defiance of the good but from flawed moral judgment—a tragic aberration, mistaking evil for good in the heat of the moment.
Plato, 427 – 348 BC
Plato linked wisdom and necessity to the duality of good and evil. He envisions self-realization and ordered integration as pathways to the good (inefficiency and unrealized potential signify malevolence). For Plato, good and evil are not external forces but internal currents: one flowing with love and altruism, the other emanating greed, envy, and malice.
The ascent to goodness, according to Plato, hinges on self-mastery and moral transformation, guiding one’s life towards the ideal form of goodness. Stoicism, of course, has experienced something of a resurgence of late, owing to Gen Z influences advocating extreme self discipline and heightened personal responsibility. Read more »
Monday, April 10, 2017
by Emrys Westacott
The ubiquitous yellow smiley is the perfect representation of our culture’s default conception of happiness. It signifies a pleasant internal state of mind. Right now, life is fun, it says. I’m enjoying myself. Don’t worry–be happy.
This is a subjectivist conception of happiness. It’s all about how one feels, and it tends to be applied to relatively short periods of time: minutes, hours, days.
When discussing happiness with my students, I sometimes describe Barney the Couch Potato. Barney inherited enough money not to have to work for a living. He spends the bulk of his days lounging on the sofa playing video games, watching reruns of old TV sitcoms, smoking weed (it’s legal where he lives), and drinking a few beers. He gets off his sofa just enough to stay more or less healthy. Friends drop by often enough to keep him from feeling lonely.
Is Barney happy? When I ask my students this question, nine out of ten invariably say yes. "Maybe I wouldn’t want to live like that," they say, "but hey, if that’s what he wants, and it makes him feel good, then I guess he’s happy."
This response supports my suspicion that a subjectivist conception of happiness is dominant these days, at least in the US. What else could happiness be, after all, but lots of pleasure without too much pain? And what is pleasure if not an enjoyable subjective state?
One way of gaining a critical perspective on this view of happiness is to contrast it with the view of happiness found in ancient Greek philosophy, particularly in the thought of Plato, and Aristotle. Interestingly, their more objectivist notion of happiness, while it has been somewhat displaced, is still with us to some extent; so what they say does not sound utterly alien. Let’s consider what it involves.
Monday, September 17, 2012
by Evan Selinger
It isn’t easy to be a good person. When facing a genuine moral dilemma, it can be hard to know how to proceed. One friend tells us that the right thing to do is stay, while another tells us to go. Both sides offer compelling reasons—perhaps reasons guided by conflicting but internally consistent moral theories, like utilitarianism and deontology. Overwhelmed by the seeming plausibility of each side, we end up unsure how to solve the riddle of The Clash.
Now, Howell isn’t a cyber utopian, and he certainly doesn’t claim technology will solve this problem any time soon, if ever. Moreover, Howell doesn’t say much about how to solve the debates over moral realism. Based on this article alone, we don’t know if he believes all moral dilemmas can be solved according to objective criteria. To determine if—as a matter of principle—deferring to a morally wise computer would upgrade our humanity, he asks us to imagine an app called Google Morals: “When faced with a moral quandary or deep ethical question we can type a query and the answer comes forthwith. Next time I am weighing the value of a tasty steak against the disvalue of animal suffering, I’ll know what to do. Never again will I be paralyzed by the prospect of pushing that fat man onto the trolley tracks to prevent five innocents from being killed. I’ll just Google it.”
Let’s imagine Google Morals is infallible, always truthful, and 100% hacker-proof. The government can’t mess with it to brainwash you. Friends can’t tamper with it to pull a prank. Rivals can’t adjust it to gain competitive advantage. Advertisers can’t tweak it to lull you into buying their products. Under these conditions, Google Morals is more trustworthy than the best rabbi or priest. Even so, Howell contends, depending on it is a bad idea.