“Taste will be the key differentiator.”

“Taste is what AI can’t replace.”

“Taste is our competitive advantage.”

Have you heard these as many times as I have over the last year?

It feels like every time technology is mentioned, especially AI, the go-to argument is that as execution gets easier, we have to move upstream and be hired for our thinking. Then that standard conversation around “taste” arises as the key to unlocking our future greatness.

I am not here to disregard the fact that this might be true. Instead, I want to challenge it with an open mind and share my thoughts with you, so you can have a ponder on the topic, because if I am honest . . . I worry this narrative is becoming a little too convenient.

Uncertainty

Designers are understandably feeling uncertain right now.

Even a designer with a couple of decades under his belt like me would have to be hiding under a rock to not feel the instability within our space right now. Many of the things we have spent years learning—our eye for good execution, our technical know-how and craft—are now becoming accessible to every human and their dog.

And when a community feels under threat, we tend to dive deep into our pockets looking for something that can protect us. Right now, the design industry keeps pulling out the taste card from amongst the fluff and crumbs.

But I can’t help wondering why, and I am continually reading articles and watching podcasts, saying to myself—REALLY?

Is taste REALLY our last great defense against AI? Or do we desperately want it to be because it’s something we’ve already spent our careers developing?

There’s something incredibly convenient about believing the thing that will save us is something we already own. The theory that we don’t need to change or evolve, as we have all the answers we need. But this is the biggest worry for me.

Taste, when positioned as the hero, risks becoming another comforting story we tell ourselves to protect our sense of value rather than forcing ourselves to evolve.

We’ve always needed a villain

This isn’t the first time designers have felt threatened by a change in technology.

We are incredibly good at finding villains, and when we feel under threat, we need to point our anger towards someone or something.

Below are just a few that I have experienced in my short existence as a designer:

• In 2010, Fiverr was going to destroy design.

• Then Canva was going to destroy design.

• Then social media was destroying design.

• And now artificial intelligence is coming for us.

I am not here to say these things didn’t change our industry, or that our concerns aren’t completely justified. New tech always challenges the status quo. It’s as simple as that. Our skills can start to lose value, entire business models can disappear, and the things people once paid us to do can become cheaper and more accessible.

It’s a bit shitty, and that’s putting it lightly. But that’s not the point of this article.

What I find more interesting is that during every creative apocalypse, we search for another “safe” patch of land that technology apparently can’t reach. And right now, that island is taste.

But why? Why has this taste thing suddenly become such a dominant part of the conversation?

Of course, there is truth in the fact that execution has become easier than ever; therefore, knowing what should be executed becomes an advantage.

But I’m not convinced it goes far enough.

Taste is inherently passive

Now, for me, there is a pretty obvious problem with making taste our moat.

Taste, by itself, doesn’t actually do anything.

I would argue that there have been humans with an undeniable sense of good taste for decades—in fact, probably centuries—who have contributed absolutely nothing to society or culture.

They knew what looked good and were very quick to recognize what was bad, and probably tell their friends about it too.

But they did fook all about it.

We’ve probably all got that mate who says, “I had that idea ages ago” every time something new appears on the landscape.

Are they lying? Is it true? It doesn’t really matter. They did nothing with it.

And that’s kind of my point here.

Taste might help you recognize something valuable, but if you don’t contribute or take action on it, it’s, well, pub talk at best.

Which makes me wonder whether we’re focusing on the wrong thing entirely. Maybe the advantage isn’t taste. Maybe it’s conviction under uncertainty. Maybe the real “competitive advantage” is having the conviction to bet on your taste before anyone else sees its value.

Shrimpton and Bailey freeze on a bridge

Now, I wanted to find a story that backed this thinking up a little bit and, luckily, I collided with my good friend Thad at just the right time, who pointed me in the right direction.

In 1962, a Cockney photographer in his mid-20s named David Bailey was asked to fly to Manhattan to shoot for Vogue during a frightfully freezing January.

The fashion editor, Lady Clare Rendlesham, had the whole thing planned out. She had dialed in a brief, the locations and models . . . the whole damn lot.

But a rebellious Bailey had different plans.

He wanted to use his muse at the time, a British model named Jean Shrimpton who was a little younger than himself. He insisted she come with him, and she was the subject matter.

Eventually, Lady Rendlesham gave in.

Now, Bailey wasn’t exactly in a position to be throwing his weight around. This was his first trip to America for the magazine and, by his own account, he was still on probation of sorts and was asked to be on his best behavior.

He was told how to dress. He didn’t listen to that. He was told how the photographs should look. He ignored that, too. He basically went to New York and “winged it,” Bailey style. I found this snippet from an interview with him that I think tells you all you need to know:

“An adventure? Not really. Clare Rendlesham was crying all the time and Jean was very, very cold. Physically shivering and her eyes watering. The clothes were dreadful. I didn’t think Vogue would like what Jean and I were doing. They didn’t like much of what I did anyway. I didn’t care. I just did what I did. But it worked.”

It’s the very last part of this quote that made me smile. “I didn’t care. I just did what I did. But it worked.”

That, my friends, is betting on your taste. He had to have conviction under uncertainty. He believed in his own judgement before the consensus was that he was right.

And it worked.

Together, Bailey and Shrimpton helped capture the emerging youth culture of the 1960s and pushed against the stiff, conservative fashion photography that Vogue had been known for before them. Bailey would go on to become one of the defining photographers of his generation. He worked extensively with Vogue throughout the ’60s, and was given an entire issue to himself in 1965 titled “Here are the most Bailey Girls in the world.” (They even turned him into an adjective.)

But let’s not forget something very important, as you may be sitting there going, “Well, David Bailey is the most famous photographer in the world, of course he can get away with it.”

In this moment, on a bridge in a blisteringly cold Manhattan in 1962, he had a lot on the line. He was young and not well known, and he risked losing it all to do what his gut was telling him to do.

So before the reputation, before the fame, and before everyone agreed he had great taste, he made the bet.

And I think that is going to be the competitive advantage for designers today. Not simply having taste, but having the conviction to bet on your taste before everyone else agrees with you. 

And, spoiler alert, AI hasn’t suddenly made all this important, my friends. It has always been important.