So. About the end of the world.

Everyone remain vaguely calm.

It’s been difficult to avoid the apocalyptic headlines about AI this week. Depending on what you’ve read over your morning coffee (or hiding under the covers), the machines are either coming for our jobs, our creativity, or possibly the entire human race.

It’s enough to make almost anything else feel a little insignificant.

And sometimes, opening this new chapter of an independent little shop in Paris (two weeks to go!) has felt absurdly small in the face of everything else going on in the world. There have been days when putting up shelves feels futile and fussing over tiny details seem almost embarrassingly frivolous beside the headlines. But then I remember: this is, in its own small way, an act of faith.

I have faith that people still want to touch things, to be surprised, follow their curiosity, and stumble across something they weren’t looking for. Faith that beauty, humour, craft and human eccentricity are very much still worth making room for.

I also don’t believe our future has already been decided for us by a piece of technology. Tools have always reflected the ambitions, flaws, imagination and intentions of the people holding them — and what happens next is still, very importantly, a human choice.

Perhaps that’s why lately I’ve found myself especially drawn to the things we made before any of this was possible.

Not because we need to retreat into the past, or pretend that every new technology is the enemy. But because it’s useful to remember what we’re capable of without it.

We knew how to surprise each other before the algorithm. We knew how to find strange things before the feed found them for us. We made beautiful things without asking a machine what beautiful looked like. And we still can.

Maybe the most useful response to a future that feels overwhelming isn’t to become more fearful of technology, but more protective and encouraging of the things that make us good humans: curiosity, humour, craftsmanship, generosity, good taste, bad taste, mistakes, eccentricity — and the wonderfully inefficient business of making something simply because you felt compelled to make it.

So this week, rather than contemplating the end of humanity, I thought we might spend a little time appreciating it.

More than ever, stay curious.

Nessy