Silent eyes

My eyes make me mute, drinking in flowers and still lifes.
"A reclining man, bare torso, electronics embedded in his skin, soil and roots, branches and flowers, dark sky" was my first command to distant algorithms. Then I asked for alterations and variations and let my thoughts and intuition run wild, even if I had little control over the result.

All these images of handsome sleeping men. Lying men from another land, copied from who knows what creator. Is it art or plagiarism? If I had the talent, I could have painted these pictures and made them my mirror. I'm content to pay to consume. Still, the sensuality of some of the renderings surprised me. Do the machines there fantasize? As one writer put it, do they dream of electronic sheep?

But you can't ask for everything. Conversational models are lined with taboos that aren't taboos at all. We can't use all the words on the pretext that they'll go astray. We're afraid of perverts, and the binary world is not one to be trifled with.

There are perhaps ways of accessing freer algorithms. Art, after all, is about the transmutation of the senses, something a computer has no right to understand. It's a hope that the machine will never be able to make art independently.

The day will surely come when electrodes or circuits connect to the brain, leaving us free to close our eyes and see and imagine everything, with no real possibility of sharing. This is the sadness and loneliness of inner existence. It's hard enough to clear the bushes of our souls, but we have to remain strangers to each other.

Translated with DeepL.com (free version)