“I am utterly disgusted. I would never wish to incorporate this technology into my work at all. I strongly feel that this is an insult to life itself.” -Hayao Miyazaki
My first encounter with Studio Ghibli’s enchanting world happened years ago when I stumbled upon ‘My Neighbor Totoro’. At the time, I wasn’t particularly aware of Japanese animation, but the moment the film started, I was drawn into its dreamlike landscapes, gentle storytelling, and quiet, meditative pace. The giant, fluffy Totoro, the whimsical Catbus, and the bond between the two sisters made me feel as though I were reliving childhood—its innocent wonders and quiet fears distilled into a single frame.
Then came ‘Ponyo’, and that’s when my son fell in love with Ghibli. He watched it so many times I lost count—perhaps fifty or more. He’d hum the theme song, quote lines, and giggle at the mischievous goldfish-turned-girl. For him, these films weren’t just entertainment; they were companions. Studio Ghibli’s magic lies not in grand battles or overwrought drama but in its celebration of life’s small, sacred moments: a child’s laughter, sunlight filtering through leaves, or the quiet courage of growing up.
Hayao Miyazaki named Studio Ghibli after the Italian word ghibli, meaning a hot desert wind, also used for the Italian aircraft Caproni Ca.309. Inspired by his love for aviation, he saw it as a symbol of bringing fresh air to the anime industry. While the Italian pronunciation uses a hard “G” the studio adopted the Japanese spelling “Jiburi” .
Beyond “Totoro” and “Ponyo”, the studio’s films are masterclasses in storytelling. “Spirited Away ” immerses viewers in a bathhouse for spirits, where a girl named Chihiro learns resilience. Princess Mononoke wrestles with humanity’s greed and nature’s wrath. Grave of the Fireflies devastates with its unflinching portrayal of war’s toll on children. Each film is a labor of love, painstakingly hand-drawn, with music that lingers like a half-remembered dream. For years, I harbored a dream of becoming an animator. I marveled at how lines on paper could breathe life into characters that felt achingly real. But life steered me elsewhere, and though I pursued other creative paths, Ghibli’s artistry remained a touchstone—a reminder of the power of human hands and hearts working in tandem.
Today, technology threatens to upend that reverence. AI tools can now generate images mimicking Ghibli’s aesthetic: soft watercolor skies, doe-eyed characters, and lush forests. Out of curiosity, I fed prompts into these systems. The results were visually striking—yet hollow. The warmth of Totoro’s fur, the subtle trembling of Chihiro’s hands as she clutches a rice ball, the way light dances in Kiki’s Delivery Service—these details were absent. AI replicates surfaces, not soul. This gap has ignited fierce debates online. Fans are divided. Some celebrate AI as a tool for democratizing art, allowing anyone to create “Ghibli-esque” scenes. Others, including animators, recoil. One artist argued, “AI art is a parasite. It feeds on the labor of human creators without understanding their struggles.”
Hayao Miyazaki, Ghibli’s co-founder, has long condemned AI’s role in art. In a now-infamous interview, after viewing an AI-generated animation of grotesque, limbless figures, he growled, “This is an insult to life itself. Whoever makes this has no idea what pain is.” His words cut to the core: Ghibli’s films are born of human experience—Miyazaki’s childhood in post-war Japan, his fraught relationship with his father, his fears for Earth’s future. AI, devoid of memory or mortality, cannot comprehend this. The controversy goes beyond philosophy. Legal and ethical questions loom: Is AI-generated “Ghibli-style” art theft? Studios like Ghibli have not consented to their work being used to train algorithms. Recent lawsuits accuse AI companies of “mass-scale artistic theft,” as models scrape thousands of frames from films like “Howl’s Moving Castle” to mimic styles, reducing lifelong craft to data points.
Studio Ghibli’s films are woven into Japan’s cultural DNA. “My Neighbor Totoro” is so beloved that the studio’s logo appears on disaster preparedness posters, symbolizing safety and hope. “Princess Mononoke” spurred environmental campaigns to protect ancient forests. These stories resonate because they reflect the “mono no aware” —the Japanese concept of treasuring fleeting beauty. No algorithm can replicate this cultural intimacy. When my son rewatches “Ponyo”, he isn’t just watching colors move. He’s reliving the wonder of his first snowfall, the ache of his first lost tooth, the quiet joy of a parent’s hug. Ghibli’s films are time machines, and their creators are guides who’ve lived the emotions they depict. Miyazaki once spent months obsessing over a four-second scene in “The Wind Rises” to capture the “feeling of weight” in a plane’s wings. What AI does in seconds, Ghibli’s artists do with years of sweat and soul.
The debate isn’t about halting progress. AI could aid artists—cleaning up frames, automating tedious tasks—but it risks becoming a crutch. The danger lies in eroding the value of human-driven art. Imagine a future where children grow up believing a machine’s flawless imitation of “Totoro” is equal to the original. We’d lose the messy, beautiful truth that art is a mirror of our humanity: flawed, fragile, and infinitely precious. Studio Ghibli temporarily closed in 2014, fearing it couldn’t survive Miyazaki’s retirement. But like the phoenix in “The Boy and the Heron” it resurrected, because its stories are needed. In a world increasingly mediated by algorithms, Ghibli’s films remind us to cherish the hand-drawn moments—the ones that smell of pencil lead and pulse with the artist’s heartbeat.
I know that what makes these movies special isn’t just how they look. It’s how they make us feel. No AI can replicate the warmth of Kiki’s Delivery Service, the quiet melancholy of Spirited Away, or the tender relationships in Whisper of the Heart. These emotions, this humanity, can only come from real artists who understand the weight of a single brushstroke.
I am a practicing freelance artist, and I’m unsure how AI will impact my career—whether it will help or harm it. Many of my fellow artists feel the same way. The rapid growth of AI in the art world is overwhelming, and we’re uncertain about how to respond or what the future holds.
