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The 15th day of the World Culture Festival 2025 featured an open-mic session titled ‘Creative Freedom in Art’, attracting significant attention from participants. Participants in the session included artists from Argentina, Hong Kong, Iran, Kenya, Malaysia, Croatia, France, Thailand, and Pakistan. Renowned Pakistani musician Ahsan Bari moderated the discussion, said a press release issued on Wednesday. Kenyan guitarist Komora said that AI is destroying human creativity. “What takes us eight months to create, AI produces in eight seconds. Art does not need AI, and whoever relies on AI is not an artist.” Argentine musician Diana Baroni remarked that with technological advancement, learning has shifted online, and humans are becoming increasingly dependent on machines. “We are slowly dying. We must unite to outsmart AI and bring discipline to change the world.”

Artists at World Culture Festival say art does not need AI

November 15, 2025 — Latest News — By: Jarida Report
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloomthe soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

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