machine-generated thinking;
people bowing to their phones.
who now experiences a minute without media?
an ocean of new ideas;
mostly bad droplets.
who am i to gatekeep? ‘purist’ is what my friends mockingly call me.
am i a purist? or simply scared of the competition?
scared of:
not being able to make it;
not having an audience;
returning a failure.
sitting in lecture-rooms,
with famous people,
feeling anger at their lack of preparation; their lack of drive; their incumbent ability to go against the mainstream — to revolt,
express dissatisfaction; the sheer abuse of power at the top of their nicely-assembled fragile pinnacles by enforcing the status-quo
— that too an undesirable one.
“we can’t help it” is what they say. rosa parks had a spine in 1955; you can’t have one now?
everyone scrambling around like headless chickens to find the next big thing that they can say ai can do.
all these fucking tools — one after the other — a change every new month, a new ‘revolution’. fuck you.
if a probabilistic-machine controls your thinking,
your medium,
your craft,
your sensibility,
your attention,
then what the fuck are you doing as an artist?
wake up. feel the dullness of your abilities; your growing intolerance; the accumulation of bodies into the controlled herd — wake up.