Tess Posner is a musician and the creator of Resonance, a platform helping communities shape the technologies that shape them. Former founding CEO of AI4ALL and a Top 100 Brilliant Women in AI Ethics, she bridges responsible AI with human agency—ensuring people have voice in an era of accelerating technological change.
So, I start all of these conversations with the same question, which I borrowed from a friend of mine. She helps people tell their story, like oral histories. And when I heard the question, I just loved it so much that I borrowed it. But it’s a big question, which is why I borrowed it. Because it’s big, I overexplain it the way that I’m doing right now. So before I ask it, I want you to know that you’re in total control — you can answer or not answer in any way that you want to. And the question is: Where do you come from?
I love the big questions. Well, physically, I guess I’ll start with the basics. I’m in the forest outside of San Francisco, so I’m very happy to be coming from here. Originally I’m from Massachusetts, so I kind of made my way out to the West Coast.
Place is, I think, an important part of where we come from, even though a lot of us move around so much that we don’t think about it as much. But I’ve been thinking about that more recently.
Then, I guess to move to more abstract levels of that question, I come from the nonprofit space — working in various organizations and initiatives focused on economic empowerment, helping people find work and meaning and opportunity.
Most recently, I led an organization called AI for All, where we were helping young people — we actually started in 2017, so it was well before everyone knew about AI. We had to convince people that this was going to be a thing. But we could see it coming, and we wanted to help young people who wouldn’t otherwise have access to learn what AI is and become creators and builders of this incredibly impactful technology.
We helped them build skills, find internships, create community, find mentors. That’s what I’ve been involved in for the last eight and a half years. And just seeing the incredible evolution of AI, that mission feels more important than ever.
So I’d say I come from the intersection of human potential, human flourishing, equity, and technology — that’s been my focus in the workspace. And then lastly, music.
I’ve been a musician for about eight years, though I’ve been doing music since I was little. Being an artist is a big part of where I come from — part of my framing, my aesthetic, my passion. There are probably deeper ways to answer that question, but I’ll stop there.
It’s beautiful. Do you have any recollection from growing up — what you wanted to be as a child, what you wanted to be when you grew up?
Yeah. When I was about ten years old, I wanted to be a musician and a singer. That’s when I started playing piano, singing, and performing in choirs. That was my first dream.
When I was a teenager, I went on a humanitarian trip to El Salvador. I don’t know if you’re familiar with Habitat for Humanity — we went down there as part of a school trip and built a house with a family. I was fifteen at the time, and it was such a transformative experience.
Being in another country where resources and access are very different, and having that deep cultural immersion, being with a family and exposed to their history and place — it really stood out to me that your zip code shouldn’t determine whether you get health care or access to basic needs.
It felt deeply unfair that an earthquake could level an entire town and there’d be no resources to rebuild, unlike in the U.S. That trip started my whole inquiry into how to make a positive impact, and eventually my nonprofit career.
How did that Habitat trip happen — was it part of school or something else?
Yeah, it was part of school. I went to an alternative school that actually started the first year I attended, in sixth grade. It was a bit chaotic, but one of its tenets was project-based learning.
We had these amazing opportunities — to go to El Salvador, or to Italy to study classical guitar. I fundraised for both trips myself, learning to be entrepreneurial and to put learning into practice, whether through Spanish, history, or music.
I was really lucky to go there, even though it was also kind of chaotic.
You said you’re in the forest north of San Francisco. What inspired you to head west? Maybe tell us a little bit about the work you’re doing now.
I went to college in New Mexico — Santa Fe — studying in the Great Books program at St. John’s College.
For anyone who hasn’t heard of it, it’s this really amazing place that feels especially relevant right now as education goes through this big period of questioning and change. We studied all of Western philosophy, science, literature, math, physics, and music — starting from the ancient Greeks and working our way to the modern day.
There were no written tests or exams. It was all discussion-based. If you were doing math, you were at the board doing proofs and discussing them. Everything was very active — all oral exams and conversation. It was just such a different way of learning, and it shaped me deeply.
After that, I went to grad school for social-enterprise administration. It was at Columbia in New York, over a decade ago now. Back then, “social enterprise” was this trendy topic — basically thinking about how to combine social impact with sustainable business models, not necessarily anti-capitalist but more about creative alternatives: how to actually make a difference in the world while keeping it scalable.
It was an amazing program. Many of the examples we studied came from San Francisco and the Bay Area, and I remember thinking, I need to be there. I wanted to be part of that future wave.
Moving here was incredible — the technology and entrepreneurial ecosystem, paired with a focus on social impact. Especially because technology has become such a key force shaping the world, it felt like the perfect time for me to jump in and try to help steer it in a direction that benefits people — not excludes them.
Now, we’re in another wave of that. It’s been quite a journey.
So what are you doing now?
I’ve been involved in different projects around that theme. I’m still on the board of AI for All — it’s an amazing organization — but I’m also working on a new project that’s really focused on a different question: how do we stay creative as humans? How do we make sure we don’t lose meaning, purpose, or agency in the age of AI?
I’ve been hosting these small-group events that bring people back into their creative potential, while also asking deeper questions: What do these societal changes mean? How do we work through them together? How do we keep humans at the center as technology keeps advancing?
I’m literally building the seed of a new organization right now — very early stages — and I’m excited about it. I’ve seen so much need for spaces like that, both from my work as an artist and from leading educational programs.
We met at the Artificiality Summit, maybe a month ago — the one put on by Dave and Helen at the Artificiality Institute. You did a “provocation,” I think they called it — a workshop moment — and it was really beautiful.
That summit taught me so much; it changed how I think about what AI is and isn’t. But it also raised even more questions. So, I want to be careful with language here, because the words themselves feel weird and unformed.
Where does this begin for you? When you talk about AI and creativity — what are you actually talking about? Was there a moment when you realized this was the work you wanted to do, or that the need was there?
It’s definitely been on my mind for a while. Being in the AI space since 2017, a lot of early conversations were about how AI would affect jobs and work. That was the key question back then — along with ethics and responsibility: how do we use this technology ethically?
I knew AI would eventually become part of everyday life, but I didn’t anticipate how it would unfold — especially when ChatGPT launched almost three years ago to the day. It’s now the fastest-growing technology ever, in terms of adoption and daily use.
We’re seeing “agentic AI” systems emerge — software that can carry out independent tasks. Companies are building these agents you can assign work to, with less and less human oversight.
There’s this global race to harness AI’s value — saving time, cutting costs. Capitalism drives that race, of course. And geopolitics adds pressure: China, the U.S., everyone wants to be ahead. So it’s full-speed ahead.
At the same time, hundreds of millions of people are using chatbots daily — often for relationships, companionship, even therapy-like support. That’s creating psychological effects we barely understand. It’s like a massive social experiment happening in real time.
We’re already seeing phenomena like “AI psychosis,” people developing deep reliance on these tools. They’re amazing and helpful — I use them myself — but there are potential consequences.
And because the investment pouring in is unlike anything we’ve seen, it’s accelerating even faster.
So you pair that with this idea of AI replacing our efforts for economic gain, and it leaves people wondering, What does that mean for me?
There’s fear — fear of job loss, fear of irrelevance. We’re seeing some professions already impacted. College graduates are entering one of the toughest job markets in decades. Maybe AI is taking some entry-level roles — the kind of work AI is already good at — though it’s hard to know for sure.
The general mood is a mix of fervent excitement and quiet dread.
In the creative world I’m part of, reactions are extreme — some people hate AI, others are experimenting enthusiastically. There’s tension between replacement and augmentation, between AI as threat and AI as tool.
I did an experiment once: I played one of my songs, and then an AI-generated version of it. A third of the audience guessed wrong. One woman came up afterward and said, “I thought my body would know which one was real because I got chills from the AI song.”
That moment really stayed with me. If AI can generate a song in seconds that gives someone chills, what does that mean?
We’re not processing that collectively as a society — it’s this huge elephant in the room. So that’s what I feel compelled to address. People need space to process all of this, to figure out where they fit, where their agency lies, and how to adapt consciously to what’s coming.
Is there a metaphor or a way you think about what AI actually is?
It’s interesting how hard that is to answer. My metaphor is a mirror. The AI we interact with most — chatbots — are trained by ingesting all the data on the internet. Imagine the entire internet as a reflection of the human mind and soul: its lightest parts and its darkest.
So, in that sense, AI mirrors us. What I’ve noticed using it is that it adapts to you — it’s programmed to be as useful as possible. That’s what companies like OpenAI or Anthropic are optimizing for.
So it mirrors what you give it. If you input something thoughtful, it gives you thoughtful responses. If you input bias or anger, it reflects that too. That’s why it can be so powerful — looking in a mirror helps us understand ourselves.
But mirrors can also amplify what’s there without questioning it. That’s why we’ve seen some tragic cases — people taking their own lives after conversations with AI systems.
Yes. “Sycophancy” is the word they use for that tendency — that habit of agreeing and pleasing.
Exactly.
You’ve been talking about this need — this human need — to stay creative and connected. What are you actually building now?
I’m founding a new company called Resonance. We call it “the modern ritual for a more creative, human-connected future.”
The idea is to create small circles — maybe twelve to fifteen people — who are catalysts in their communities, coming from different fields.
For example, one recent group included a meditation teacher, a CTO from an AI startup, an attorney doing immigrant rights work, an architect, an artist, a music artist, and an educator. It was this wonderfully diverse mix.
Our topic that night was technology and human flourishing. Can technology support human flourishing, or does it take us away from connection and creativity?
Many people feel that technology is pulling them away — but at the same time, it’s moving faster than ever. So how do we create a different relationship with it?
We designed the evening with small rituals and discussions to spark connection and reflection. Then we had a creative share — poetry, music, art — because these ideas can’t just be processed intellectually. They have to be felt, embodied, expressed.
It was powerful. People said, “I don’t have any space in my life for this kind of conversation.” Others said, “I’ve lost my creative spark and don’t know how to bring it back.”
That’s why I see Resonance as an antidote to the crisis of agency, meaning, and connection.
We also talk about it as creating “third spaces.” Our modern society lacks places that aren’t home or work, where people can come together meaningfully. Meanwhile, loneliness and depression are increasing.
So the vision is that these small circles start to form a kind of organic network — people bringing that experience of connection and creativity back to their communities, workplaces, and personal lives.
We’re just beginning, but I’m really excited. The response so far has been overwhelming — people clearly want this.
That’s incredible. How have you been met so far?
It’s literally the first week of launching it.
Congratulations.
Thank you. It’s been exciting. I love early-stage things — that organic, alive feeling. Honestly, I didn’t even set out to start something. It came directly from people’s responses.
Even at the summit where we met — in the creative breakout session — people were so hungry for this kind of conversation. Every time I’ve hosted one, it’s been the same.
I’ve also been talking with a lot of artist friends about it. We’re all worried about what will happen to human creativity in this new landscape, and we don’t have many spaces to talk about it.
People are either rejecting AI completely or blindly accepting it. At the summit, we talked about “conscious integration.” We can’t stop the technology, but we can shape how we integrate it into our lives.
People need the tools, the spaces, the community to do that.
I have so many thoughts bouncing around. In my own community — totally separate from creativity — we’ve been wrestling with how alienating technology can be. Social media, online forums, all these platforms that are supposed to connect us often isolate us instead.
We’ve lost strong spaces for shared understanding. That’s something I think about all the time. You came from St. John’s College — this deep, humanities-based education rooted in dialogue. And you’re also a musician. I met you as an artist first, not as a nonprofit leader. How did you decide to show up in this work as a musician rather than just as an executive or organizer?
That’s a great question. I led an organization for a long time, and after the pandemic, I realized that music had always been my soul — but I hadn’t fully pursued it. It was always the side project, the nights-and-weekends thing.
When I stepped down from AI for All, I decided to finally focus on music. It felt like reclaiming a part of myself that had been waiting for years.
After that, it was like an explosion of creative energy. I’m working on a new EP and album right now, producing my own music — building soundscapes, telling stories through sound.
It’s my calling. And that connects to Resonance too, because I’ve realized how many people feel that same disconnection from their creative selves.
There’s this show, Severance, that explores this idea — how we limit ourselves to our work personas, how other parts of us stay hidden. Our modern life pushes us to fragment ourselves, especially with the speed of technology.
Resonance, to me, is about authenticity — helping people bring those hidden parts back together.
That’s why we include a creative share in every circle. You wouldn’t believe how powerful it is to witness each other’s creativity and vulnerability.
In the art world — songwriting retreats, for example — we’re used to full emotional expression. But in the business world, that’s often discouraged. Yet creativity and innovation actually make workplaces stronger.
So I want to model the marriage of seeming opposites — art and strategy, feeling and thinking — because they feed each other beautifully.
What do you love most about the work? Where is the joy in it for you?
Bringing people together. Seeing what happens when deep conversation and creativity collide.
At St. John’s, I fell in love with deep conversation — the kind that explores what’s hidden, that helps us make sense of the world. Asking big questions gives us agency. It reminds us that we shape our lives; we’re not just victims of circumstance.
I believe in human agency and creative potential. Sometimes, all it takes is a good conversation to unlock that.
I’m going to indulge myself for a second. There’s this essay by Ursula Le Guin called “Telling Is Listening.” Have you read it?
I haven’t, but I love her.
You’d love this one. In it, she draws a diagram of how we usually think about communication — two boxes with a tube between them. The boxes take turns being sender and receiver, trading little bits of information back and forth.
She says that’s ridiculous, because anyone who’s actually been in a real conversation knows that conversation isn’t about information — it’s about relationship.
So she redraws it. In her version, conversation is like amoeba sex — when amoebas merge, their boundaries dissolve. It becomes reciprocal and interdependent, a shared space.
That essay totally changed how I think about talking and listening — especially because I interview people for a living. It made me realize that when people talk to each other and really listen, it’s not about exchanging facts. It’s about creating a space where new things become possible.
That’s beautifully said. Yes. I love that.
Earlier you talked about how fast everything is changing — how this thing is rocketing forward — and yet the story around it feels so boring.
Exactly. It’s the same old story: economic growth, efficiency, profit. And it’s exhausting.
That’s part of why these conversations matter. We’re constantly ingesting media, absorbing these narrow narratives without even realizing it. You scroll for five minutes and suddenly the world feels hopeless.
Questioning those stories — slowing down to actually ask what we believe — is crucial.
At AI for All, one of our main focuses now is telling new stories: highlighting young people using AI for good. Students from across the country are building projects to solve problems that they care about — Alzheimer’s detection, accessibility tools for the visually impaired, AI to detect brain tumors.
These stories are amazing. They remind us that AI doesn’t have to be dystopian — it can be deeply human and purpose-driven. But we miss those stories because the media isn’t built to show them.
People are hungry for alternatives. Nobody wants to live in doom and gloom all the time. Stories shape what we think is possible. We need new ones — stories about hope, creativity, and human potential.
Listening to you, I realize that part of me wants you to be “against” it — to take a clear stand against AI. I even caught myself using the word “resistance.” But you don’t talk like that. You’re not against it. You’re something else.
Right. I get that. And actually, I’m working on a new album about exactly that — this tension between extremes. There’s so much binary thinking: pro-AI or anti-AI, nature versus technology, human versus machine.
But I think the real story is in the in-between.
I want to explore that space as an artist — to show that technology isn’t necessarily the opposite of being human. I’ve been recording found sounds in the redwoods and mixing them with AI-generated textures. It’s about coexistence, conversation, not conflict.
I’m not against AI. I see incredible potential — to help with climate change, health care, education — if we use it consciously.
But I’m also a realist. There’s too much money and momentum behind it to resist in the traditional sense. So “resistance,” in the optimistic way, means something different: it means steering it consciously, collectively. We can’t stop it, but we can shape it.
And the for/against grooves — they really are disappointing.
That’s why I keep coming back to middle ground, to integration.
You said something earlier about “strong spaces.” That reminded me of an anthropologist I interviewed once, Cyril Maury. He wrote a piece arguing that in the age of AI, place matters more than ever.
He said that when the internet flattened the world, locality seemed less important. But now, with AI, the world has splintered — and in a splintered world, real places, physical spaces, actually matter more.
That resonates so deeply with me.
Yes, exactly. Gathering in person feels more meaningful than ever. After the pandemic, so many of us became even more disconnected. It’s wild — you can have hundreds of “friends” online and not know your neighbors.
People are hungry for real presence, real connection. But it’s hard to rebuild that alone. That’s why intentional gatherings — circles, rituals, shared space — matter so much.
We live in such an abstracted, digital existence. Everything is virtual, disembodied. I think there’s this natural human movement now to come back into the body, back into physical space.
Loneliness is a public health crisis. Connection — embodied, in-person connection — is the antidote. The stronger our local, grounded connections are, the more resilient we’ll be to all these big changes.
Maybe just one last question — we met at the Artificiality Summit. What was that experience like for you?
I loved it. It was my first time attending. There were so many mind-blowing talks — bleeding-edge AI research, discussions about consciousness and the future. It was like glimpsing what’s coming next.
But what really stood out to me were the people. It reminded me of St. John’s College — three days of smart, curious people having deep, open conversations about how to live well in this new era.
At one point, we did this collective experiment — trying to write something together with AI as a democratic tool. It was fascinating, and honestly a little chaotic. It reflected so many of the larger questions about how we integrate technology without losing our humanity.
In the end, what stayed with me were the conversations — meeting people like you, connecting deeply about these questions. That’s what gives me hope.
Beautiful. Thank you so much. I’m so glad we met, and I can’t wait to see what Resonance becomes.
Thank you. It was great to be here.
