On copying, tracing, converting and prompting.

March 2026

My whole art department is run on tracing paper. Why re-invent the wheel?
- Don Draper in Mad Men

Copy Art

The demo scene has a peculiar view on copyright. It roughly boils down to a system of effort - effort in ideas, effort in craft - where the scene polices itself and punishes sceners that steal outright from other sceners. Theft from the outside world, however, is often taken lightly - especially when it comes to graphics.

Early pixel art on the scene was almost always copied (or, more correctly, plagiarized) from other sources. In particular, fantasy- and science fiction related art was immensely common. Fantasy artists Boris Vallejo and Frank Frazetta, as well as raunchy robot airbrusher Hajime Sorayama, were popular favourites.

Three different Amiga pixel art interpretations of Frank Frazetta's Death Dealer. All images on this page are clickable and link to non-lossy versions when available.

This pixel art wasn't about originality as much as it was about craft. Scanners and digitizers were far too expensive for a teenager, and the images produced by early consumer models were crude and lackluster. Making an image truly pop with detail and sharpness required hand-pixelling, which is a very involved process. First, there was the copying of a source outline by hand, using a mouse (or joystick, on the C64), and then came aspects such as conveying details in a limited resolution (typically around 320x256 pixels), picking a limited indexed palette (usually 16 or 32 colours), and manually adding dithering and anti-aliasing. It was painstaking work.

The TV painting tutorials by prolific landscape artist Bob Ross hasn't become an online phenomenon because his hundreds of mountainscapes are era-defining sensations (though certainly nice to look at), but because people enjoy watching his creative process and technique, mastered to perfect effortlessness. This notion is echoed in any carefully hand-pixelled work, where the craft itself can be discerned and enjoyed on its own, even if the subject matter is yet another Frazetta copy. Teenage boys will be teenage boys, and their choice of source material all too predictable. The real value of early scene pixels came from the invested labour, not whether they constituted a unique composition or otherwise fresh idea.

Owning Up, or Not

Some scene artists were very upfront about copying. Bisley's Horsys is clearly a Simon Bisley copy, and calling a picture Vallejo (NSFW!) is self-explanatory. In the slide show Seven Seas, artist Fairfax clearly lists sources and inspirations in the included scroll text. Others were more quiet about it, but the prevailing sentiment among scene artists at that point in time was that copying was not only allowed, but almost expected.

Pixel artist Lazur's 256 colour rendition (left) of a photo by Krzysztof Kaczorowski (right). A masterful copy showcasing the sharpness, details and vibrancy achievable with pixel techniques. Of special note is the use of dithering on the matchbox striker and the frontmost man's sweater, creating an almost tactile sense of texture.

Just like in traditional painting, some pixel artists had a natural knack for copying by freehand, whereas others resorted to more fanciful methods. Some used grids, overlaying the original image and then reproducing the same grid on screen to retain proportions. Others traced outlines onto overhead projector sheets, which - thanks to the nature of CRT monitors - were easy to stick to the computer screen and trace under. Today, the use of drawing tablets is much more likely. In the end, however, they all had to fill, shade, dither and anti-alias by hand.

Scene artists soon perfected the pixel art translation, and could accomplish astonishing results with very limited resources. Some started adding their own flair to their copies: a few details here and there, perhaps combining several sources into a new composition. This grind of copying and refining is often a great way to learn, and people in their late teens may be forgiven for wanting to emulate their idols without including the proper credits.

Enter the Scanner

Some time around 1995, scanners had become both cheaper and better, and the Internet opened up a world of new image sources. Combined with cheap, powerful PCs and widespread piracy of Adobe Photoshop, this allowed for new ways of creating digital art. Clever rascals started doing pure scans and passing them off as their own work, but these were still often inferior in quality to the handmade pixel art copies. With time, however, paintovers and tweaked scans could often be passed off as craft to an unsuspecting audience. Around this time, the No Copy? web page was launched, causing disillusionment among many graphics fans who weren't familiar with how common copying in fact was.

At its core the scene is a meritocracy, even if the source of merit may sometimes seem strange to outsiders. Scanning and retouching was (and remains) considered low status and cheating, and many artists and other sceners complained (and complains) loudly when finding someone out. Before 1995, complaints about scanning weren't usually about copied source material, but about the lack of craft: the process still mattered more than originality and imagination.

Around the turn of the millennium, this attitude started to shift. Many sceners were now well into their twenties or thirties, and with maturity came a thirst for original work - both among artists and audience. Some artists, however, had a hard time breaking free from the comfort of copying or, worse, simply converting. The practice continued, but a greater stigma was now attached to it. Hence, Vallejo was discarded in favor of material that could more safely be passed off as one's own. Today's various art sharing websites have made this easier than ever, but that also means plagiarizing other hobbyist artists, which has a different sort of tinge to it than teenagers ripping off big name fantasy painters.

Theft, References and Copies

Steve Jobs once said that good artists copy and great artists steal, and attributed the quote to Picasso. As with many good quotes, it's often referred to out of context, and without much thought. The actual source seems to be T. S. Eliot, who wrote that "Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different from that from which it was torn; the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion."

It's easy to misconstrue Jobs' version of the quote as a carte blanche for simply reproducing someone else's work, but what Eliot describes is how artists understand art, and how they incorporate inspiration from other works into their own: He's not suggesting that great poets copy Shakespeare verbatim and pass it off as theirs. In fairness, neither did Jobs: At their height, Apple decidedly improved what they stole - especially the GUI.

The distinction between copying and original work spans a gray area, and when pressed about copying, demo scene artists will usually mumble something about how everyone uses "references". For people not generally involved in painting, this might sound plausible enough, but references aren't the same as making copies of pre-existing art. References are an aid for visually understanding a subject and achieving realism, because nobody can perfectly draw, say, a train from memory alone.

Hergé was a stickler for realism and often did near-perfect reproductions of references in Tintin - but always in his own distinct "lignie claire" style.

Some will use existing photos, some will walk down to the local train station with a camera, others still will bring a sketchbook and make detailed pencil studies. If striving for accuracy and detail, photo references are invaluable. Sometimes an artist will work from a photo they've taken or commissioned themselves, thus being in control of the subject and composition. Anders Zorn and Pascal Dagnan-Bouveret are two of a plethora of classic painters who used photo references for some of their most recognizable works; Zorn himself was an avid photographer.

Norman Rockwell demonstrating his use of a Balopticon.

Famous Americana illustrator Norman Rockwell frequently used a Balopticon to project photos onto a canvas and traced the projection. He described this technique with no small amount of self-deprecation: "The Balopticon is an evil, inartistic, habit-forming, lazy and vicious machine. I use one often - and though am thoroughly ashamed of it. I hide it whenever I hear people coming." Yet, his personal style is unmistakable and the photo compositions were his own. Dutch renaissance master Vermeer is suggested to have used a similar technique with a camera obscura.

The key difference between a reference and a copy is that in a copy, the source is a work of art by someone else, and the original artist's subject, style, intent, composition and choices are transferred onto the new work. Perfectly reproducing the Mona Lisa may take time and skill, but the reproduction is a copy, not an original work based on a reference. Trying to pass it off as your own is plagiarism, and this is what most sceners actually mean when they say "copy".

To the left is a skillful 1994 pixel rendition by Tyshdomos of the caricature to the right, by Sebastian Krüger. The original was no doubt made using at least one reference. The pixel art version, while showing much more than just a shallow understanding of the source material, is still a copy of the style, intent and choices of Krüger. Tyshdomos usually credited the original artist in his images.

As opposed to the more traditional plagiarism on the scene, pre-existing digital images require no tedious manual transfer using a mouse. It's simply a matter of scaling them down to a suitable retro resolution and adding a sprinkle of your own dithering to make it seem more handmade. Suddenly - as with scanning - the grind of the copy is no longer a factor, and the craft is seemingly reduced to covering up the picture's origin.

Fakers and Makers

In the present day, typical retro sceners are in their forties and fifties and have families, established careers and comfortable middle class salaries. The scene is no longer a place for cutthroat teenage social games, but an indulgent hobby and time sink of choice. It's about creating for the sake of creating, for the love of the craft, for the joy of the process. It's about getting better at something that is, ultimately, utterly inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. It's even pointless as a middle class status marker: few people brag to their neighbours about having coded a texture-mapped cube in a peculiar graphics mode on a long forgotten home computer.

Most pixel artists have long since left the blatant plagiarism behind and are now accomplished, mature creators. They're capable of thinking up original ideas and realizing them in their own, unique styles. As with any hobby, there's still status to be had among the in-group, but the strict pecking order of teenagers has been replaced with a laid-back attitude of friendship, sharing and mutual appreciation of the demomaking craft in general.

Despite this, there are graphics artists who continue to plagiarize, and those who've started to rely on generative AI. Some are upfront about this, too, and clearly label AI generated images as such. Others tell outright lies or are very quiet or avoidant when discussing their process. Often, there's a bit of manually added pixels in these pictures for good measure, like a sprig of parsley on a microwave meal being passed off as a labour of love.

Just like with copying, there's an ongoing discussion about AI on the scene, and there are as many different views as there are sceners. The general consensus seems to be in the camp of honoring the craft, or at the very least practicing transparency about the creative process. This is reflected in the rules of most demo parties, which often explicitly state that the use of generative AI is forbidden - a rule that is seemingly hard to enforce and frequently broken.

Elements of Green, original pixel art by Prowler. In this timelapse we can follow the process from a pencil sketch (perhaps based on photo references) to finished piece, via both digital painting and traditional pixelling.

Some sceners claim that the end result is all that matters, and that discussing or even disclosing the process is pointless. Another view is that generative AI is just another tool, like a paint program, and that its usage is a natural progression for a culture that has always been about exploring the intersection of digital technology and art.

The Joy of Not Painting?

The scene - like creative communities in general - has always been full of contradictions and paradoxes, in views as well as methods. In some cases, what could be considered plagiarism is the central point of an entire body of work: Batman Group is a demo group that almost exclusively makes Batman-themed demos, showcasing astonishing skill in raw tech as well as aesthetics and storytelling. In other cases, it may be a question of satire or utilizing a culturally powerful pastiche. One of my own favourite demos of all time, Deep - The Psilocybin Mix, makes heavy use of (very apparent) photo montages. These are things both artists and audiences have to live and deal with on a case-to-case basis.

For me personally, generative AI ruins much of the fun. I still enjoy creating pixel art and making little animations and demos. My own creative process remains satisfying as an isolated activity. Alas, obvious AI generated imagery - as well as middle-aged men plagiarizing other, sometimes much younger, hobbyist artists - makes me feel disappointed and empty. It's not as much about effort as it is about the loss of style and personality; soul, if you will. The result is defacement, to echo T. S. Eliot, rather than inspired improvement. Even in more elaborate AI-based works, it's hard to tell where the prompt ends and the pixelling begins.

In the commercial world of late stage capitalism, I'd expect nothing less than cutting corners. For me, the scene is about something else. It's a place of refuge from the constant churn of increased efficiency, and an escape from the sickening void of the online attention economy. It's where we can spend months putting yet another row of moving pixels on the screen to break some old record, because the platform doesn't change and nobody is paying us to be quick about it. It's where I instinctively want to go for things that aren't the result of a few minutes in front of DALL-E. I can get that everywhere else, at any time.

Farting around with Amigas in 2026 means actively choosing to make things harder for the sake of making things harder. Making that choice and still outsourcing the bulk of the craft and creative process is like claiming to be a passionate hobby cook while serving professionally catered dinners and pretending they're your own concoctions.

There's not much to be done about it, because the scene has no governing body or court of appeals - and I dearly hope it stays that way. I just can't wrap my head around the point of using AI in this setting: It feels antithetical to a culture that so adamantly celebrates creativity, technical limitations, extremely specialized skills, and anti-commercial sharing of art and software.

What's interesting is that those most reliant on AI and plagiarism seem to feel the same way. Otherwise, they wouldn't be so secretive about it.