Mike Wirth talks with Israeli realist painter Avraham “Avi” Vofsi about classical oil painting, Jewish identity, and his AI assisted Theodor Herzl project. They explore how to use new tools without losing the human aura, and what Jewish images might look like in the future.
In this episode, Mike unpacks Hiddur Olam, his creative Torah system and multi‑volume art book series that reimagines Genesis through Jewish futurism, design thinking, Mussar, and Kabbalah. Listeners will hear how weekly parsha study, visual storytelling, and spiritual practice come together as a framework for beautifying the world through creative Torah.
Discover Hiddur Olam, a creative Torah system and illustrated book series that reimagines the first portions of Genesis as luminous encounters between humanity and the Divine. Mike Wirth shares how Torah study, design thinking, Mussar, and Kabbalah weave into a practical framework for Jewish futurist creativity and spiritual growth. Learn how weekly parsha art, reflective commentary, and a structured creative process became the backbone of a multi‑volume Hiddur Olam series and its upcoming companion workbook. This episode is for artists, educators, rabbis, and seekers who want to turn their own creative practice into a form of Torah learning and world‑beautifying action.
In this episode of The Jewish futurism Lab, Mike Wirth uses the 4C model of creativity to map out what we really mean by “creative” in an age of AI art and endless images. He traces his own journey from parametric code experiments to Jewish futurist murals, then layers in Jewish history, exile, and the long tension around graven images as a lived curriculum in world‑building.
Along the way, Mike explores flow, aura, and authorship, asking who holds intention and responsibility when AI enters the studio. The conversation lands in Jewish futurism as an ethical frame, inviting listeners to treat narrative and technology as tools for building livable futures.
Walter Benjamin, AI, & the Aura of Art: In this episode of The Jewish futurism Lab, host Mike Wirth unpacks Walter Benjamin’s “aura” of art and asks what presence means when every image can be copied, remixed, and generated on demand. Moving from Byzantine icons and ritual objects to photography, social media, NFTs, and AI image models trained on his own work, Mike maps six value eras of art, from cult value and exhibition value to digital manipulation, circulation, synthetic scarcity, and generative value.
Check out his article on the topic here.
Along the way, he explores why a family Hanukkiah, a live performance, or a handmade painting still feel different from a viral post or a blockchain-certified NFT, and how Jewish ritual and textual tradition offer a counter-story to purely market-driven ideas of originality and authenticity.
The episode lands on a haunting, guiding question for our AI age: when you stand in front of an image, an object, or an artwork today, was anyone present when this was made?
Walter Benjamin is not a household name. But he should be.
In 1936, this German philosopher and cultural critic wrote an essay that predicted, with startling precision, almost everything that has happened to art since. He described what it would feel like when images became infinitely copyable. He anticipated the strange hollowness of standing in front of a famous painting you have already seen a thousand times on a screen. He named the feeling you get in front of a great original that no photograph ever quite captures. And he called it, simply, the aura.
“Even the most perfect reproduction of a work of art is lacking in one element: its presence in time and space, its unique existence at the place where it happens to be.”
— Walter Benjamin, Illuminations (214)
You already know what aura is. You have felt it. It is the difference between seeing a photo of the Grand Canyon and standing at its edge. It is why people still cry in front of paintings in museums. It is why a vinyl record from a musician you love feels different from the same album on a streaming service. It is why your grandmother’s ring means something her ring’s photograph does not. Benjamin just gave it a name and asked what happens to it when technology makes everything reproducible.
I have been asking that same question for most of my adult life. The answer, it turns out, is complicated. And beautiful. And a little devastating.
Benjamin’s core argument is simple enough to fit on a Post-it note: every original artwork has a presence tied to the specific place and moment it occupies in history. He called this its “here and now” (Benjamin 214). A painting carries the weight of every hand that ever touched it, every room it ever hung in, every century it survived. That accumulated presence is its aura. And the moment you photograph it, print it, digitize it, or copy it in any way, something essential leaks out. The copy is everywhere. The original is still only here.
I remember reading this in college and thinking it sounded romantic, maybe even a little precious. It took years of making things, and years of watching how people relate to things I made, before I understood he was not being romantic at all. He was being precise.
He was writing at a moment when photography and film were brand new cultural forces, and he watched them doing something no previous technology had managed: not just reproducing art, but changing what people expected from it. The museum poster, the art history textbook, the film still. Suddenly the image of the artwork was more familiar than the artwork itself.
“That which withers in the age of mechanical reproduction is the aura of the work of art.”
— Walter Benjamin, Illuminations (221)
What makes Benjamin so prescient is that he was not simply mourning this loss. He saw something potentially liberating in it too. If art was no longer locked inside churches and palaces and the reverence of the elite, maybe it could become something more democratic. Maybe it could be politically alive in ways sacred objects never were. I find that tension in his thinking genuinely useful. He does not give you a clean answer because there is not one. He holds the grief and the possibility at the same time, which is, I think, the only honest way to engage with what technology does to culture.
What Benjamin could not have predicted was how many more transformations were coming. Aura did not simply wane and disappear. It kept reinventing itself, finding new containers, mutating into new forms of value with each new technology. When I map these transformations out, what strikes me most is not how much has changed but how consistent the underlying human longing remains. Every era destroys one version of presence and immediately starts trying to rebuild it.
“The desire for authenticity, for the unrepeatable, for the original: this is what drives the market’s endless attempts to reconstruct aura under new conditions.”
— Jos de Mul, Cyberspace Odyssey
Here is how that history maps across six eras.
Before the camera, art had cult value. It existed in one place, for one community, embedded in ritual (Benjamin 217). You had to travel to it. The gap between you and the object was not an obstacle. It was the point. Think of a Byzantine icon, a cathedral fresco, a Torah scroll passed down through generations. These things were not primarily decorative. They were alive with the weight of where they had been and who had held them.
I think about this constantly in my work with Jewish material culture. A Hanukkiah that has been in a family for four generations is not the same object as an identical one bought last year. It carries a history in its scratches and its dents and its smell. That is cult value. And I want to be clear about something that often gets lost in discussions of Benjamin: cult value has not disappeared from contemporary practice. Studio artists working in slow, material-intensive disciplines, oil painting, ceramics, hand-pulled printmaking, still generate genuine aura through the ritual of making. The visible trace of time, the irreproducible encounter with an original surface: these conditions still produce something real. I have stood in front of works that stopped me cold in ways I could not explain, and I believe that experience is not nostalgia. It is recognition.
Photography gave us exhibition value. Art could now travel to you, flattened and portable (Benjamin 225). More people than ever could access it, which was genuinely democratic and genuinely good. But the form of that access had changed fundamentally. The Mona Lisa on a postcard belongs to no place and no moment. It has been liberated from its context and, in that liberation, hollowed out a little. I do not say this with contempt for the postcard. I own plenty of them. I say it because the hollowing is real, and pretending otherwise does not serve anyone.
“The technique of reproduction detaches the reproduced object from the domain of tradition.”
— Walter Benjamin, Illuminations (221)
The market fought back almost immediately: signed editions, numbered prints, certificates of authenticity. I find this reflex fascinating and a little poignant. The demand for aura did not disappear when the technology changed. It went underground and started looking for new containers. That pattern repeats in every era that follows, and once you see it you cannot unsee it.
The digital age brought manipulation value. Theorist Lev Manovich argued in 1998 that the database had replaced narrative as the dominant logic of new media culture (Manovich, “Database”). In a database, nothing has a fixed place or hierarchy. Everything is a node, waiting to be queried, remixed, and recombined. Art became raw material. Its worth shifted from what it was to how generative it could be.
“The database represents the world as a list of items, and it refuses to order this list.”
— Lev Manovich, “Database as a Symbolic Form”
Hip-hop producers understood this intuitively before any theorist named it. Joseph Schloss establishes in Making Beats that producers sample not because it is convenient but because it is aesthetically beautiful, governed by a strict ethics of creativity and reverence for the source (Schloss 60–61). I find this argument genuinely moving. A Madlib record is built from hundreds of samples, each one carrying the aura of its source: a 1972 soul session, a Brazilian jazz recording, a forgotten film score, all folded into something new. The manipulation is also an act of love. He knew what he was taking. He was accountable to it.
“Sampling itself is an embodiment of this active process of engaging with history.”
— Jeff Chang, Can’t Stop Won’t Stop (qtd. in DiCola and McLeod 74)
That accountability is everything. It is what separates sampling from mere recombination, and it becomes the critical distinction when we get to AI.
Social media created circulation value. In the age of Instagram, TikTok, and viral sharing, what an artwork is worth is inseparable from how far and fast it moves (Eryani). I remember when this shift started to feel real to me, not as a theoretical idea but as something I was actually living. Works I made that circulated widely took on a kind of social weight I had not anticipated. Works I made that did not circulate felt invisible regardless of how much they meant to me. That asymmetry disturbed me. It still does.
“In the digital age, the aura of an artwork is no longer tied to its physical uniqueness but to its cultural resonance and the collective experience it generates.”
— Rulla Eryani, “Aura Reimagined”
A work now risks losing significance not by being too widely reproduced but by not being reproduced widely enough. Obscurity, not ubiquity, is the threat. Benjamin would have found this deeply strange. I find it both funny and genuinely disorienting.
NFTs tried to engineer scarcity value. When digital technology made reproduction totally free and infinite, the market did not accept the loss of aura gracefully. It built a financial instrument to simulate it. A blockchain certificate acted as a surrogate original, a unique claim of ownership over an infinitely copyable file (Jin). I watched this happen in real time and felt something like recognition mixed with exhaustion. Of course the market did this. It always does.
“NFTs don’t reinvent the aura — they show us what it always was: a structure of power, hierarchy, and exclusivity dressed in spiritual language.”
— Laurie Rojas, Caesura Magazine
What NFTs revealed, more nakedly than anything in recent art history, is that the desire for aura was never purely spiritual. It was always also about property, exclusivity, and the economics of being the one person who owns the real thing. The container was synthetic. The longing was genuine. I think that distinction matters enormously.
AI generation has brought us to generative value. This is the strangest and most unsettled territory of all, and I say that as someone who is inside it. AI does not reproduce existing works. It generates entirely new ones, trained on millions of images, producing outputs that look like art, circulate like art, and affect people the way art does, but which were made by no one in particular, in no specific moment, with no hand, no resistance, no decision under pressure.
“AI systems trained on cultural databases continue the database logic of new media, generating new narratives and images from accumulated cultural archives.”
— Lev Manovich and Emanuele Arielli, Artificial Aesthetics
I have fine-tuned my own image models on my own work. I fed them my visual language, my aesthetic history, my accumulated decisions as an artist, and watched them generate images that look, in some meaningful way, like me. I want to be honest about how strange that experience is. The outputs are genuinely useful. I use them for ideation, for unlocking directions I might not have found otherwise, for seeing my own sensibility reflected back at unexpected angles. But I have never used AI output in a final work. Something stops me every time. I have spent a lot of time trying to name what that something is, and I think Benjamin finally gives me the language: the generated image carries the shape of my aura but not its weight. The model learned from objects I made in specific moments. It was not there when I made them.
This is also where collage becomes a useful and genuinely complicated contrast. Hannah Höch, Kurt Schwitters, Romare Bearden built entire practices on the deliberate rupture of aura in source materials. And yet their works carry unmistakable aura of their own. The cut is a decision. The placement is a decision. The tension between fragments is authored, lived, physically enacted in a specific moment by a specific person. AI image generation looks like collage from the outside but the difference is exactly what Benjamin would have identified: there is no hand, no moment, no resistance.
“A work of art produced by a human hand communicates something of the artist’s presence, their struggle with materials, their decision-making under pressure — none of which a machine can replicate.”
— Eva Cetinic and James She, Leonardo (Cetinic)
A collage artist ruptures aura intentionally and then reconstructs something from the rupture. An AI model has no relationship to rupture because it was never present to the wholeness of what it borrowed from. Collage and hip-hop sampling both taught me that context can be destroyed and meaning can still be made. AI is asking me whether that is still true when the displacement is total and no one was accountable to the source. I genuinely do not know the answer yet.
Here is the thing about Benjamin’s argument that keeps bringing me back to it after all these years: the desire for aura never disappears. Every technological shift triggers an almost immediate cultural attempt to reconstruct what was just lost. Signed prints, authentication certificates, blockchain tokens, the slow craft revival, the vinyl resurgence, the return to film photography among young artists. These are not nostalgic accidents. They are symptoms of a persistent human need for the irreplaceable encounter, for the object or experience that cannot be anywhere else because it is only here.
I see this in my students. I see it in collectors. I see it in myself every time I walk into a room with an object that stops me. The need is real. What changes is only the form it takes and how honestly we reckon with whether the form is delivering what we actually hunger for.
“The authenticity of a thing is the essence of all that is transmissible from its beginning, ranging from its substantive duration to its testimony to the history which it has experienced.”
— Walter Benjamin, Illuminations (221)
The question Benjamin leaves us with, and the one I find most urgent right now, is not whether aura survives. It clearly does, in some form, in every era. The question is what conditions make genuine aura possible and what conditions produce only its simulation. The handmade object, the live performance, the face-to-face encounter: these still generate something real. The blockchain certificate, the AI output, the viral image: these generate something that rhymes with aura but plays by different rules. Knowing the difference, and caring about the difference, might be the most important thing an artist, a designer, or a thoughtful consumer of culture can do right now.
Walter Benjamin died in 1940, at the Spanish border, fleeing the Nazis, carrying a manuscript no one has ever found. He did not live to see television, the internet, the smartphone, or the AI image generator. But he understood the essential dynamic that drives all of them: every new technology promises to bring art closer to everyone, and every new technology changes what art is in the process of doing so. The question he asked in 1936 is the same one I keep asking.
Was anyone present when this was made?
This essay is part of an ongoing exploration of Jewish Futurism, design thinking, and the cultural stakes of emerging technology.
Benjamin, Walter. “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.” Illuminations: Essays and Reflections, edited by Hannah Arendt, translated by Harry Zohn, Schocken Books, 1969, pp. 214–240.
Cetinic, Eva, and James She. “The ‘Aura’ of Artworks in the Era of Artificial Intelligence.” Leonardo, vol. 58, no. 4, MIT Press, 2025, pp. 352–360.
Chang, Jeff. Can’t Stop Won’t Stop: A History of the Hip-Hop Generation. St. Martin’s Press, 2005.
de Mul, Jos. Cyberspace Odyssey: Towards a Virtual Ontology and Anthropology. Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2010.
DiCola, Peter, and Kembrew McLeod. Creative License: The Law and Culture of Digital Sampling. Duke University Press, 2011.
Eryani, Rulla. “Aura Reimagined: Walter Benjamin’s Legacy in the Digital Age.” LinkedIn, 8 Apr. 2025, www.linkedin.com/pulse/aura-reimagined-walter-benjamins-legacy-digital-age-rulla-eryani-aa4cf.
Jin, Li. “Art in the Age of Crypto Reproduction.” Li’s Newsletter, 16 Apr. 2024, www.lisnewsletter.com/p/art-in-the-age-of-crypto-reproduction.
Lund, Niels Windfeld. “The Aura of the Artwork in the Digitalization Age.” Diva Portal, 2017, www.diva-portal.org/smash/get/diva2:1115789/FULLTEXT01.pdf.
Manovich, Lev. “Database as a Symbolic Form.” October, vol. 77, 1997, pp. 1–15.
Manovich, Lev, and Emanuele Arielli. Artificial Aesthetics: A Critical Guide to AI, Media and Design. 2nd ed., 2025, manovich.net.
Rojas, Laurie. “Why There Is No Good NFT Art (Yet?).” Caesura Magazine, 11 Jan. 2022, www.caesuramag.org/posts/laurie-rojas-why-no-good-nft-yet.
Schloss, Joseph G. Making Beats: The Art of Sample-Based Hip-Hop. Wesleyan University Press, 2004.
| Era | Value Type | Where Value Lives |
|---|---|---|
| Pre-camera fine art | Cult value | Ritual, place, singular presence |
| Mechanical reproduction | Exhibition value | Display, access, circulation of copies |
| Digital / database age | Manipulation value | Remixability, recombination, intentional use as raw material |
| Social media age | Circulation value | Network reach, social resonance, shared encounter |
| NFT / blockchain age | Scarcity value | Artificially engineered uniqueness via protocol |
| AI generation age | Generative value | Potential, variation, promissory futures |
In this episode, I look at how AI is impacting Jewish artistry itself: from how I and other Jewish artists research, sketch, and prototype with AI-generated imagery, to how algorithms are beginning to influence our visual language, ritual design, and the stories our communities tell about themselves. I raise concrete questions about authorship, ownership, and credit when AI systems remix Jewish symbols and styles at scale, and I ask what happens to kavannah, memory, and responsibility when part of the “hand” in Jewish art is computational. Throughout, I frame AI as both a powerful tool for midrashic reinterpretation and speculative Jewish futures, and a disruptive force that can flatten nuance, decontextualize heritage, or sideline human makers if we do not respond with clear ethical commitments.
Let’s not wrestle with this golem alone. Check out this episode.
Software referenced:
What does it mean to build a Jewish future through scissors, glue, and pixels? In this episode, I sit down with collage artist Alex Woz, who I met at the Jerusalem Biennale. We talk about the graphic design industry, swap stories about our favorite Jewish artists, and get honest about why we make what we make.
Alex grew up in an antisemitic city and turned that experience into an artistic mission. We explore the weird parallels between cutting and pasting found images and prompting AI, what makes art original, and how we’re both in conversation with Jewish creative lineage from Moritz Daniel Oppenheim to today.
This conversation goes deep on legacy: What are we leaving behind for our descendants? What does Jewish creativity look like when it refuses to disappear? And why is Alex a practitioner of Jewish futurism, even if he works with analog and digital hand tools instead of code ?
What happens when flow has no boundaries? In Episode 4 of The Jewish Futurism Lab, I explore how creativity without limits turns into exhaustion, addiction, or production without reflection. This episode introduces Shabbat not just as religious practice, but as a design principle: a refusal built into time that prevents work from consuming the people inside it.
Drawing connections between Mussar ethics, inclusive design, and systems thinking, I examine how Jewish tradition offers practical frameworks for sustainable creativity. From classroom constraints that sharpen student focus to the Golem story’s “erase key,” this episode asks: Where is your pause? Where do you step back before momentum takes over?
Join me as I unpack why limits aren’t the enemy of creativity. They’re what make creativity sustainable and accountable.
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In this first episode, I’m introducing The Jewish futurism Lab and what this podcast is here to build: a space where Torah learning, creative practice, and emerging technology meet. I’ll share a quick bit about who I am, what Jewish futurism is, and why I’m drawn to Jewish futurism, then lay out what you can expect in future episodes, essays, and projects connected to my work at mikewirthart.com. We’ll start with the foundation, what Jewish futurism is, why it matters right now, and how we can imagine bold, ethical Jewish futures without losing our roots.
During my semester long sabbatical, I set out to experiment with new ways to tell Jewish stories, and I kept coming back to the immersive feeling of games. While I stayed focused on my main objective, completing my book Hiddur Olam: Bereshit – Genesis and telling new Jewish stories through art and writing, this Hanukkah, I also felt a pull to expand this idea of immersive storytelling into video games, where players could step inside the work rather than only view or read it. Framing the game projects as interactive midrash let me treat code, mechanics, and level design as another layer of commentary on the same questions that animate the book: how to re engage with foundational Jewish narratives, how to honor tradition while playing with form, and how to imagine Jewish futures that feel both grounded and newly alive in digital space.
For all of these projects, I leaned heavily on what I think of as vibe coding. By vibe coding, I mean describing in natural language how I want something to feel, look, or behave, then using AI coding tools to generate or refactor code until the game’s behavior matches that feeling. I used ChatGPT, Gemini, and GitHub’s coding assistants as a rotating team, asking for everything from small bug fixes and refactors to full systems like player controllers or state machines. I have 20 years of front-end and back-end web development coding experience. Having been a part of a wave of student designer-artist-coders in NY in the late 90s and early 00s making websites by day and net-art by night, vibe coding is great method to make code sketches of ideas or experiments. In this project, I would move the same block of code from one model to another when I got stuck, wanted new insight, or when I wanted to shift from quick procedural hacks into a more object oriented structure. Each of the the different LLM code “voices” helped me see new paths through the same problem. These tools gave me a sense of freedom to soar with code, where in the past I would have been creeping along, slowly teaching myself new methods and getting bogged down in syntax rather than in the Jewish and ludic questions that actually interested me.
A cluster of questions ran through everything I made:
Each experiment became a different argument or provisional answer to these questions.
So, over 8 nights, I played with various game and interaction experiments. Here are my best of the best, in no particular order.
Best for dreidel kinetics
With Dreidel Run, I leaned into the question of how to evolve dreidel gameplay at a purely kinetic level. Here, I made the case that the dreidel can succeed as a contemporary and arguably futuristic game mechanic when it is allowed to be fast, flashy, and even a little mindless, while still anchored in
Hanukkah imagery like gelt and glowing colors. Using the Temple Run game mechanics, the experiment argues that not every Jewish game needs an explicit narrative lesson, and that embodied fun, quick reflexes, and the pleasure of catching coins and dodging hazards can themselves be a form of connection, a way of feeling Hanukkah as energy and rhythm rather than only as a story told in words.
Best for dreidel physics
In the dreidel and Katamari Damacy inspired mashup, I took seriously the question of whether a small, four sided object could scale up into a world building tool. The design argues that as the spinning dreidel absorbs gelt and grows, it enacts a kind of visual and mechanical midrash on Hanukkah’s themes of accumulation,
excess, and the tension between material things and spiritual light. By exaggerating the physics, I could show how a simple ritual object might literally reshape its environment, and in doing so, I tested how far dreidel based mechanics can stretch before they stop feeling like dreidel play and become something new. Another fun way to play with the dreidel kinetics.
Best Holiday Stress Reliever
The smaller dreidel physics sandbox experiments addressed the quieter research question of how players might encounter Jewish content without a fixed goal at all. The spinning battle top game transforms the dreidel into a tornado like object tasked to destroy Seleucid idols of the Temple. It’s instant gameplay makes the argument that
open ended, low stakes experimentation can be a valid form of digital Jewish learning, where the “lesson” is not amoral but a felt sense of spin, friction, wobble, and collapse. In the second experiment I used the Marble Madness type game play, making the dreidel become
a tiny lab for thinking about stability and risk, which echoes Hanukkah’s precariousness, and invites players to linger, tinker, and waste time in a way that is still charged with symbolic possibility. These were worthwhile explorations of the exciting and kinetic nature of the dreidel game.
Most conceptual
In my Catan style prototype, I explored whether a four sided dreidel could act as a meaningful dice object inside a complex resource and territory game that could help tell the story of Hanukkah in terms of the Maccabees, Hellenized Jews, and Seleucids as groups competing for resources and domination in Jerusalem. The design argues that it can, because each side of the dreidel already carries narrative weight, and that weight can be elevated when paired with a card, tableau and board game system like Catan. Resource bonuses, penalties, or events that shape a shared board.
By letting the dreidel drive the different outcomes for each player I was curious to replace the dice with two dreidels. Pushing the game narrative of dreidel from a closed loop into a network of context specific effects.While buggy and complicated, this was one way that Hanukkah themes of scarcity, risk, and negotiation might live inside a modern strategy game.
Best for Hanukkah story
Hanukkah Quest 1: The Temple of Gloom tackles the question of how to better tell the story of Hanukkah with the immersiveness of a game. Here, I argue that interactive midrash is possible when puzzles, jokes, and spatial navigation all serve as commentary on the holiday’s themes, such as hiddenness,
illumination, desecration, and rededication. Instead of retelling the miracle in a linear script, the game invites players to stumble through a gloomy, playful temple and slowly piece together meaning from their own actions, which models a Jewish way of learning that is iterative, interpretive, and grounded in wandering and return.
These experiments do not just gesture toward Jewish futurism, they enact it and point toward where it might go next. They show that Jewish futurism means keeping ritual objects and stories in play, while re staging them inside interactive systems where players can touch, bend, and argue with them in real time, like a digital beit midrash that anyone can enter. By dropping the dreidel and Hanukkah into arcade runners, resource economies, absurd physics toys, and point and click temples, the work suggests that the future of Jewish storytelling may live in responsive systems rather than fixed scripts, and in shared worlds that generate many valid readings instead of a single correct answer. Your vibe coding practice, using AI to rapidly prototype and reconfigure these systems around a felt sense of Jewish meaning and play, is a clear example of Jewish futurism in practice, and it opens hopeful paths forward: networked Jewish game spaces, collaborative “midrash servers,” classroom rituals that unfold as playable worlds, and future projects where new holidays, communities, and speculative texts are first tested as games before they are written down. In that sense, these games are not an endpoint but a launch pad, a sign that Jewish life will keep unfolding inside new technologies, still circling the same core questions of memory, risk, light, and communal responsibility, while inviting the next generation to help code what comes next.
