Once, my teacher shared a story with me that stayed in my mind for a long time.
She had bought a drawing from a poor student. One of those spontaneous encounters—she was moved, wanted to help. She wasn’t an art expert, but something touched her. Maybe it was the talent. Maybe the beauty of the gesture itself. Later, a friend of hers told her it was a copy. That he had seen the exact same drawing somewhere else. That’s when she realized she had been deceived. Or at least, that’s how she felt. But was she really robbed? Technically, no. She exchanged money for something that turned out not to be unique. And yet it wasn’t empty either. It was still an object. A piece of art. It had its own place, before it lost the magic of originality.
The student didn’t rob her. Maybe he didn’t give her what she expected—but he gave her something he was willing to accept money for. Maybe he needed it for dinner. Or for a beer. Or for art supplies to create something new. In every version of this story, he found a buyer, and the buyer made a choice. The issue wasn’t with the work. It wasn’t even with the artist. It was with the intention. Because when you act out of emotion, you expect gratitude. And when you receive disappointment instead—you feel betrayed. Even if no one ever promised you more.
Back then, an artwork had to be physical to be considered “real.” And now? We live in the age of digital products. We sell files. We buy links. We download ZIP folders. Even if an artwork was created with the help of AI, someone still spent time generating it. Crafting the prompt, testing, tweaking. And time is money. In the digital world, we rarely pay for a physical object—we pay for the effect, the feeling, the mood. Sometimes even just for the belief that we belong to a micro-world. In that exchange, the most important question is not: “was this hand-painted?” but rather: “does it leave me in awe?”
Of course, fraud still happens. And in digital art, it’s harder to detect. How do you check if an image was stolen? Or if the author is truly the author? There’s no easy answer—because a signature alone is no longer enough. But honesty in digital art is measured by more than a “handmade” tag. It’s measured by style, consistency, voice. And the most important question isn’t “is it one of a kind?” but “does it make sense when I look at it?”
If the piece speaks to you, then it’s yours. Even if it was born on a screen. Even if you’re the only one who sees it.
