In August I wrote to you about a birthday present for my wife that didn’t exist.
I walked our backyard with my phone, took photos from multiple angles, and had AI render what a garden back there could look like, with four raised beds, a white arch, and a bench under the oaks, and then I handed her the picture and a promise to build it. The plan called for beds in September, transplants in October, and kale by Thanksgiving, and now it’s November, the beds are built, and the seedlings are waiting.
The azalea didn’t wait.
The numbers
We hired a builder, and I handed him the picture and the plan the model made to go with it: bed sizes, spacing, footprint. He built to the numbers, four beds, four feet by eight, packed too close together to catch the sun, because those numbers were a model’s guess about a yard it had never stood in, and I’d forgotten to say so.
I had to explain to the builder that what I’d handed him was a mock-up. A possibility. A sketch. He had to make it his, and he’s a creative person, so that was a golden ticket.
He pulled the stakes, resized the beds, and spread them out to chase the light through the oaks, and where the picture had a white arch, he built a pine pergola.
My wife did the same thing without being told. The picture had crushed oyster shell, and she put down mulch. The gift came with seeds, and she bought seedlings, because she wanted a garden this fall and not a theory of one. The bench moved to where she wanted to sit. None of that was in the picture, and all of it is hers.
A rendering is a question. The people who build it get to answer.
Yes, and
The machine painted what three of us had been trying to say for a year, and then its job was over, and that is how I think about AI in teams now. It’s “yes, and,” the improv rule, where you take what you’re handed and add to it: the machine said a garden here, the builder said yes, and wider, and my wife said yes, and mulch, and seedlings. It gave three people something to say yes to.
The newsletter, the blog, the companies I’m trying to build all started the same way. I get to plant the seed. I don’t get to decide the plant.
Nothing is in the beds yet, because my wife is waiting to plant the seedlings with the kids, which was the whole point, and the kale still has a shot at Thanksgiving. I’ll let you know.
The picture is still on the fridge, and the garden doesn’t match it, which is how I know it’s hers. The jasmine has found the trellis and started to climb.
— Joe
P.S. Tell me about a time you handed someone a sketch and they built the sketch: joseph@josephlapin.com. I read and answer everything.
