Recently, an actor named Scott Jackmain from Dallas made headlines for selling his likeness on TikTok, netting $750 and a trip to the Bay Area. Although he hasn’t had any roles in TV shows, films, or commercials, his AI-generated image has found a new life online. Apparently, people often reach out to him, thinking they’ve seen him promoting various brands on TikTok.
However, Jackmain now expresses regret about that decision. But why? He sold his image willingly and, technically, there’s nothing illegal about it. He aimed to pursue acting, and in a way, he’s doing just that—albeit digitally. His regrets appear to stem more from potential financial implications than ethical concerns.
A quote worth mentioning suggests, “The more perfect the imitation, the greater the lie.” This reflects a broader sentiment: people are drawn to authenticity rather than an unrealistic ideal.
The reporter, Sapna Maheshwari, echoes this, pointing out the lack of royalties and legal safeguards for individuals like Jackmain. She raises important ethical questions too; for instance, digital avatars can sometimes promote products that are, frankly, quite shocking. In one instance, an AI version of Jackmain advertised a “male performance aid.” In another case, an employee at TikTok allegedly released an AI avatar that recited a line from Hitler’s “Mein Kampf.” Following coverage by CNN, TikTok removed the tool that allowed such content creation.
When Your Face Becomes an Asset
These concerns fit into a larger, growing issue—similar to those posed by deepfake technology. Recently, some individuals have found themselves impersonated online, including well-known figures like Bishop Robert Barron and even a fake Pope Leo XIII. Such fakes can be misleading and damaging.
Yet, the core issue with these digital avatars isn’t merely about deceit; it’s that they lack genuine existence. Even if someone like Jackmain received significant payment or if religious communities accepted synthetic preaching, it doesn’t diminish the unsettling nature of the practice. Selling one’s likeness feels like a transaction that commodifies something inherently human—voice, gesture, and presence—reducing them to mere products.
When someone licenses their “digital twin,” they’re surrendering more than just their data; they’re putting their entire identity on the market. The unique qualities that define an actor—facial expressions, tone, and mannerisms—are now someone else’s intellectual property.
This realization often makes audiences uncomfortable. I mean, when you see an AI portrayal mimicking a human, no matter how advanced the technology, it feels somewhat hollow. Digital copies simply lack the emotional or moral weight that genuine humans carry.
Sell Your Soul
This theme isn’t new; it’s been explored in art and philosophy for ages. Remember that “Simpsons” episode where Bart sells his soul for a mere $5? He quickly feels the emptiness and nightmares that follow, realizing he’s lost something vital. This comedic premise carries a significant metaphysical truth: giving up what makes us uniquely human leads to genuine loss.
For believers in an immortal soul, like Jesuit philosopher Robert Spitzer argues, this loss transcends the psychological. Selling oneself is akin to viewing one’s inner likeness—often seen as divine—as just another marketable asset. What might seem a simple digital agreement holds much deeper symbolism.
Oscar Wilde captured a parallel moral decline in “The Picture of Dorian Gray”: while Dorian remains outwardly youthful, the portrait of his soul deteriorates. In our digital era, the inverse holds true; AI avatars stay young and flawless, while the human models age and fade away.
Jackmain cannot simply erase his AI likeness. It’s owned by someone else as per their contract. To stop his digital counterpart from peddling products like supplements and energy drinks would require legal action—and odds are, he’d struggle. Trapped in this artificial narrative, he watches his digital self thrive while he contends with everyday life. It sounds eerily similar to a storyline from “Black Mirror,” portraying a man stuck in a twisted version of his success.
Moral Exit
Solutions to this troubling dilemma often revolve around copyright reform, consent norms, and various regulations. Yet, genuine change can only come from individual choices. Actors shouldn’t sell their digital selves, and consumers ought to refuse to engage with platforms that prioritize synthetic models over real people.
If TikTok and other media giants continue embedding digital replicas into content, viewers should urge for “fair trade human content.” Just like ethical shopping has become a norm, so too should the demand for artwork and advertising created by living, breathing individuals.
Technology advocates may insist that AI avatars will soon be indistinguishable from their human counterparts, but that misses the real issue. The more flawless the simulation, the larger the deception. What people genuinely desire is authenticity, not a perfect façade. We cherish imperfections and effort; we want to experience life.
If we abandon that pursuit, it’s not just careers or contracts we might lose; we risk forfeiting the essence of our humanity itself.
