Have you ever come across the acronym DYOR? It’s not the name of a miswritten French fragrance, but shorthand for Do Your Own Research. A kind of financial mantra born in the depths of Web3, used to absolve oneself amid the circus of digital tokens being sold for mind-boggling sums. A motto that sounded like a magic formula to offload responsibility from those promoting yet another bubble disguised as a cultural revolution.
Yet this little “anti-hoax” acronym hints at something deeper, almost philosophical: are we really doing our own research anymore? Or have we handed over curiosity and critical thinking into the hands of algorithms?
Until a few years ago, searching for something online had a sense of exploration: you typed, you navigated, you took wrong turns, you got lost in links and detours. A small cognitive adventure. Today, however, we live in a digital ecosystem that anticipates us, predicts us, and serves us ready-made answers. Algorithms, these new invisible oracles, know our tastes, inclinations, and probably even our moments of weakness.
It’s convenient, of course. But what happens when we start trusting them too much? When we allow artificial intelligence not only to suggest a movie or a restaurant but also to guide our investments—or worse, which artist to buy? The scenario that unfolds is at once fascinating and unsettling—a new Renaissance led by machines, or the silent end of aesthetic free will?
These issues are explored by Jo Lawson-Tancred in her essay Artificial Intelligence and the Art Market, where she analyzes the rise of platforms offering art-financial advice based on machine learning. In other words: entrusting the choice of an artwork—and an investment—to data. According to Lawson-Tancred, we are still in an embryonic phase: collectors don’t fully trust algorithmic advice. Yet the ground is being prepared—and quickly.
Driven by curiosity, I decided to test one of these AI platforms, asking it to recommend contemporary artists to invest in under ten thousand euros. After a series of ethical disclaimers and liability clauses worthy of a notary, a surprisingly sensible list arrived. One name immediately caught my attention: Marina Apollonio, “a pioneer of Italian Op Art, recently rediscovered by the market. Small works or multiples could still grow,” the AI informed me, in a conspiratorial tone. I suspected that the algorithm already knew too much about me, flattering—or almost flattering—my optical art enthusiast ego.
I then asked myself: how hard will it be, in the future, to maintain true critical thinking? When even our most intimate tastes are shaped by invisible suggestions, how much will truly remain “ours”? Art, which for centuries has been the domain of intuition and the unexpected, risks becoming yet another minefield of data, predictions, and forecasting models.
Perhaps the true luxury of the future won’t be owning the right artwork, but knowing how to choose it for ourselves—without an algorithm whispering in our ear. Because if we keep letting machines guide us, we risk forgetting how to do the most human thing of all: think with our own mind.
