AI Art and the Last Spark from Prometheus’ Torch

Feet consumed by designer sneakers impart their trademark in the land. Flecks of rock, tinted a dull blue, intermingle with grains of sand, highlighting disparities sequenced within makeshift twirls. A leaf blower dispatches air spurts and eliminates potential comparisons to Fibonacci patterns, but does the wind’s motion, the twirls and the trademark itself, qualify as a happy accident? 

Art subjects a witness to view disentanglement among stimuli, propelling an understanding of the natural world. Pollack’s splotches, Frida’s unibrow, Monet’s lilies and the like, distinguish value, out of the ordinary, priced using the senses. 

Money depicts a communal hallucination, this mirage appraises creation. In the context of taxes owed, an ordinary lily pad is able to leave the debtor with a blank check. 

AI Art is the line in the sand, the boundary to which humanity can no longer separate the artist from their art. Art for the sake of commodification. 

Mannequins stand at attention, behind museum glass and are treasured for what’s draped over their plastic skin. Forthwith: an alienation technique, a marketing tool: Roman sculptures molded with synthetic bones, able to be mutilated at a moments notice and presented for ordinary display. Art for the sake of commodification. 

A painter’s knuckles swell as they grip their brush. Carpal tunnel afflicts their attempts at putting paint on canvas. Momentary pain targets spots up and down their arm. It compliments a day’s work, at achieving a masterpiece. 

A typist envisions a scenario, they describe it using their keyboard and press enter. An image appears on the monitor as their knuckles grow tense from movement. A doctor informed them, so long as they avoid excessive screen time, the pain should subside.

Prussian Blue enticed submission in its admirers. 

AI Art complies with blue light and disrupts sleep patterns, insisting dreamers demand alms from their waking hours. 

Sunlight breaks through a gap in the blinds and creates a glare on the typist’s screen. In response, they close the window curtain, concealing the room in darkness, guaranteeing the only light source is the one emanating from the computer.

%d bloggers like this: