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I’m writing from Corvallis, Oregon, where I’m attending the annual SLSA conference (Society for Literature, Science, and the Arts) a gathering I love for its inherent interdisciplinarity. This year’s theme is RISK. It’s a generative theme precisely because it cuts through every field. After all, every discipline has its own risks. Yet when it comes to AI, the stakes feel especially imminent. How could they not? The very people building this technology often warn us that we stand on the verge of doom. As I listened to the brilliant talks this week, I began to notice something unsettling: not just the risks themselves, but the way risk was being framed. Once “risk” is named, measured, and secured, it threatens to swallow the very multiplicity it was meant to open up. Suddenly, whatever falls outside the category of “risk” appears “safe.” But what in life is ever truly safe?  This thought pushed me to reconsider what we mean by “risk” altogether. Doug Starck’s talk sharpened this realization. He spoke about risking his athletic career at the very moment when he already knew that career was ending. I won’t spoil the details of what he did, but what struck me was this: risking something you’re already bound to lose isn’t really a risk at all. And that thought brought me straight back to AI. The discourse around AI casts every career as under threat. If that’s the case, why not risk them now? If our careers are already slipping into precarity, then risking them is no longer a risk but perhaps the most rational move. Risk shifts into something else: less about what we might lose, and more about what we might allow ourselves to imagine. Other talks circled the same problem from different angles. Jennifer Rhee argued that AI is not so much eliminating jobs as it is intensifying labor. With the help of Mimi Ọnụọha’s haunting illustrations of AI’s ghost workers and their living spaces, Rhee reminded us that AI is neither inevitable nor autonomous. Rather it depends on us. Her framework invites us to see labor differently, to notice who is hidden inside the machine.  Meanwhile, Thomas Rickert questioned the metaphors we rely on to describe AI. He challenged familiar tropes, such as the “stochastic parrot” and the “narcissistic mirror” and argued that we must come up with better metaphors,” suggesting that N. Katherine Hayles’s framing of AI as a nonhuman symbiont points us in a more productive direction.  This left me wondering: which metaphor is riskier? “AI is taking our jobs away”? Or “AI is intensifying our labor”? The first sparks fear, but it also creates an opening. If our jobs are already slipping away, maybe we can imagine ourselves outside the structures that bind us. The second sounds less catastrophic. One might think “at least I still have a job,” but perhaps that’s the more dangerous trap. It risks normalizing a life in which our labor is steadily devalued, while closing off the chance to imagine other ways of living, working, and being. And how, then, do we begin to imagine other ways of living? In a talk on Future Faculties and Deep Time, Aaron Jaffe shared a provocative list of “future faculties” written by media theorist Siegfried Zielinski. Among them were capacities like unconditional hospitality, surprise generators, non-censurable systems, chaos pilots, and dancing philosophy. Another panel member later suggested we should write our deans and ask for these to become academic programs.  And so... Why not? I wouldn’t mind becoming a professor of “risk, dignity, and ludology” when the time comes to find an academic job. Yet such a position does not exist…not yet…. Perhaps its absence is the point. The safest job, if such a thing exists, may be the one that remains unimagined. Might this be an opportunity to push these speculative gestures further and ask: what would it actually mean to live as a chaos pilot? Instead of teaching students to avoid uncertainty, perhaps we could invite them to dwell in it, design with it, think with it, even learn to trust it. What new pedagogies might emerge if we seriously trained in unconditional hospitality? A classroom could open not only to enrolled students, but also to strangers, to nonhuman participants, to those not officially admitted, and welcome them without preconditions. And what would it mean to teach “non-censurable systems” in a time of escalating political surveillance? Perhaps it requires us to create forms of knowledge that leave no archive for authority to suppress. Maybe a seminar conducted in whispers, in shared breath, or in work that circulates rhizomatically across humans, machines, and environments, with no single voice holding the whole. If risk, as I’ve been suggesting, is less about what we might lose than about what we dare to imagine, then the challenge is not to seek safety but to inhabit this uncertain space where we might find other ways of living, working, and being. But… this might be the greater challenge: how do we dare to imagine? At SLSA, one answer emerged in a series of dazzling Pechakucha talks modeled after the Fluxus art movement. Each speaker had exactly 6 minutes and 40 seconds to explore the theme of risk, and the results were as playful as they were unsettling. I found myself tossing potatoes in the air during Michael Files’s performance, cramming my mouth full of M&Ms at Chris Wildrick’s talk, confronting “the Fascist in me” through Emilio Taiveaho Peláez’s poem (the cure, he assured us, was simple: just poop it out), and spinning blindly beneath a cascade of counterfeit dollar bills in Lukas Wood’s piece.
These and more turned my SLSA experience into a wonderfully-risky one. not only the risks we talk about but the ones we practice with our bodies and our willingness to be playful, funny, or even ridiculous with one another.
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I spent two weeks in Italy this summer. The trip wasn’t planned. I had intended to visit my family in Israel, but when the war caused our flights to be canceled, we found ourselves instead in Rome. It wasn't easy to let go of the idea of seeing our family and friends but, Rome is definitely not a bad place to suddenly find yourself in… especially if you love art (and food...). With no itinerary, we simply wandered around. Everywhere we went, we encountered iconic masterpieces. We've seen Michelangelo’s sculptures and frescoes, Botticelli’s paintings, Bernini’s fountains, and so many other works by those towering figures of art history. While undeniably beautiful and timeless, I couldn’t stop thinking about the mythologies behind them, the religious, patriarchal standards they continue to communicate. With all due respect, the contemporary art I encountered in Italy felt far braver and urgent. Two exhibitions in particular stood out: - "Icarus" by Yukinori Yanagi at the Pirelli HangarBicocca in Milan. - "Black Soil Poems" by Wangechi Mutu at the Galleria Borghese in Rome. Yukinori Yanagi’s Icarus Yanagi’s exhibition included several large-scale installations that left me completely unsettled. As I entered the darkened space, the first thing I saw was a massive mound of debris: yellow barrels marked with radiation symbols, wrecked cars, broken furniture, sandbags in an overwhelming heap of destruction. At its peak sat a glowing, all-seeing eye, staring back at me as I stared at it. The work, titled Project Godzilla 2025 – The Revenant from “El Mare Pacificum.” The Godzilla eye instantly reminded me of Donna Haraway’s famous description of the “god-trick,” the gaze from above that dominates, surveils, and, as she says, “fucks the world.”  Right behind this mound of debirs hung Absolute Dud, a replica of the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima. Unlike the chaotic mound, this piece was minimal, clean, and suspended just above the ground, as if paused in mid-fall. It left me wondering: what if it really had been held back? How different would our world look today?  Finally, across the room stood Banzai Corner: Hundreds of Japanese action figures (Bandai Ultraman), holding their hands up and arranged in a quarter-circle between two mirrors to form the red circle of the Japanese flag. The result is an unsettling image of the entanglement of capitalism, nationalism, and pop culture.  For me, Yanagi’s monumental heap of debris negated the heap of marble that forms the Fontana di Trevi in the heart of Rome. One symbolizes abundance, civic pride, and mythological power while the other symbolizes catastrophe, nuclear trauma, and environmental collapse. One is animated by the flow of reviving water, while the other by the toxic residues of modernity. I saw The Banzai Corner in relation to the sculpture of David by Michelangelo. At first glance, they could not seem further apart: marble versus plastic, singularity versus multiplicity, Renaissance humanism versus postmodern critique. Yet both works rely on the monumental force of the human figure as a vehicle for collective ideals. Michelangelo’s David manifests the heroic body and the weapon he holds, while Yanagi’s chorus of Ultramen, replicated ad infinitum, transforms mass-produced toys into a monumental emblem of nationhood. In this way, the heroic individuality of David and the mirrored collectivity of Banzai Corner converge as two versions of the same impulse: the staging of human form as symbol that embodies civic virtue and nationalist conformity.
The rest of Yanagi’s exhibition was no less impressive, provocative, mesmerizing, and deeply unsettling. Among the most striking works was his renowned The World Flag Ant Farm, an installation composed of a vast grid of sand-filled cases, each patterned with the colored sands of national flags. Into this carefully ordered display Yanagi introduced living ant colonies. As the insects burrowed and tunneled through the sand, they slowly destabilized the flags, carrying particles from one case to another and eroding the crisp boundaries that had once defined each emblem. What starts as a neat taxonomy of nations gradually unravels into a chaotic, hybridized landscape. Encountering the Israeli flag in this state was, for me, uncannily disturbing given the current situation in the region and the reason for which I was actually standing in front of this piece. Yet the unsettling power of the work lies precisely in its refusal to isolate one nation from another. Every flag in the installation, whether Israeli, American, Japanese, or otherwise, all succumb to the same process. Each one is subject to transformation and decay, until what remains is no longer a symbol of unity but a record of entropy and interconnection. The ants are indifferent to the histories embedded in these flags. They enact a quiet but relentless reminder: political borders and national identities are human constructs.   There were so many other interesting artworks in this exhibition. Many that I will continue thinking about and carrying with me. Wangechi Mutu's "Black Soil Poems" I have long admired Wangechi Mutu’s work, and I will never forget her extraordinary exhibition at the Legion of Honor back in 2021. Her chimerical, hybrid beings, simultaneously human, animal, and vegetal, reminding viewers of the possibilities of transformation, which was exactly what I needed to see after the terrible isolation and fear of the COVID-19 pandemic. To discover that Mutu now had an exhibition in Rome was thrilling in its own right. Like the San Francisco installation, this presentation was situated within an esteemed art institution, this time the Galleria Borghese which hosts an unparalleled treasure of classical sculptures. Walking through its galleries, one encounters Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne or Pluto and Proserpina. These marble works seem to transmute stone into flesh and motion. Against this backdrop, Mutu’s sculptures intervened with a different kind of metamorphosis: bodies made of earth, bronze, shells, and pigments, fusing African mythologies with futuristic imaginaries. Placed among these canonical masterpieces, her works insist on creating a dialogue. While Bernini’s figures become hybrids through their attempt to escape a disturbing existence, Mutu’s figures exist as hybrids, these creatures are always in their chimeric form, always and already hybrid, and in flux. Seeing her work interspersed with the Borghese collection underscored not only the persistence of myth and metamorphosis in art history, but also the urgency of expanding those myths to include other genealogies, other bodies, other futures.
One work that especially resonated with me was The Grain of Words. In this piece, Mutu overlays a classical Roman mosaic with letters cut from coffee and tea leaves. These materials carry their own long histories of colonial extraction, trade, and cultural ritual. The mosaic, a fragment of antiquity preserved as part of Rome’s artistic patrimony, becomes the ground upon which Mutu inscribes a different kind of text: not the voices of Roman emperors or mythological heroes, but the words of resistance and liberation.  The letters spell out the lyrics of Bob Marley’s song War, itself adapted directly from an Emperor, but an Ethiopian one - the words of Haile Selassie’s historic 1963 address to the United Nations. The opening line is uncompromising: “Until the philosophy which holds one race superior and another inferior is finally and permanently discredited and abandoned, everywhere is war.” In Mutu’s hands, these words are not merely quoted but embodied, woven into organic matter that stains and reconfigures the polished surface of classical heritage. For me, in particular, standing there witnessing this work of art because of the war, carried an uncanny weight. It is clear that these words do not represent a historical statement. Sadly, they continue to stand as a present-tense indictment. Everywhere is war. Here are some photos I took at Mutu's 2021 exhibition in San Francisco:
 To conclude, I'd say that the war in the Middle East is devastating and I wish for it to end immediately. I have not been able to see my family and friends, and the distance feels unbearable at times. Yet instead, I found myself in Italy. Interestingly, out of all the art I've seen there I found myself resonating mostly with works of art that confront war, violence, and survival. War is something I think about constantly, not only in relation to the current crisis, nor just in the last two years, but as an ongoing condition that shapes how I understand myself and the world. I deeply admire artists who can respond to this reality with such strength and courage, giving form to something that feels at once unspeakable and ever-present. Their works remind me that art can be both a record of trauma and a vehicle for resistance, that it can hold grief and hope in the same gesture. Perhaps one day, I too will be able to find a way to communicate my own thoughts and feelings about war through my art. In the meantime, and under the shadow of the ongoing war, I am glad and privileged to be alive, able to spend my time with loved ones, and to have the space to make art, view art, contemplate and write about it. Unfortunately, at the same time, so many people live through unimaginable loss. This awareness humbles me. It also deepens my sense of responsibility to keep searching for ways to imagine how we might yet live beyond war. I’m writing from Vancouver, where I’m attending the SIGGRAPH 2025 conference. The days here are dense, with back-to-back sessions, immersive exhibitions, and countless hallway conversations that stretch long after the schedule ends. As I move through it all, I keep asking myself: What are the most urgent questions emerging from this moment? SIGGRAPH has always impressed me with its ability to bring scientists and artists into the same room. This year is no different. Some people I meet identify firmly with one side or the other, but I also notice many who seem to inhabit a hybrid space, moving fluidly between both worlds. This year, much like the few previous ones, there are many conversations about AI and I can't help noticing a tension in how we think about this technology. On one side, some are framing it as nothing more than a tool while others see it as a form of nonhuman intelligence.  Early in the week, keynote speaker Aaron Hertzmann made a strong case for the first view. He argued that AI is not a person and therefore cannot be creative. AI-generated art, he said, is ultimately human-made art, with AI serving as just another instrument in the process. Drawing comparisons to historical shifts like the rise of photography, he reassured artists they need not fear being replaced. The room seemed to exhale - “Thank goodness, we’re not going to be replaced…” But I couldn’t help wondering: why does the question of replacement echo so persistently through conversations about AI?  In the meantime at the SIGGRAPH art gallery, a juried exhibition curated by Francesca Franco on the theme of connecting nature, art, and technology, I encountered a distinctly different energy. That same creative spark ran through the rest of the Experience Hall, which included the Immersive Pavilion and the Emerging Technologies programs curated by Saskia Groenewegen and Nathan Matsuda, respectively. Along with the new and utterly exciting Spatial Storytelling program curated by Marco Cemusoni. In the art gallery I resonated with Plant.play(), a piece by Yoonji Lee, Chang Hee Lee, and Alo Asadipour, featuring a living plant playing a pet simulation game. Environmental sensors translate the plant’s biological signals into caregiving decisions, which shape the behavior and development of a virtual pet on a nearby screen. Viewed through the lens of “replacement,” the piece becomes provocative: a plant takes the place of a human gamer, and the simulated pet stands in for a living animal. Will humans one day be replaced by plants? Will organic pets be replaced by simulated pets? And are these questions anywhere near as alarming as the one that hovers over so many AI discussions. I guess not. We rarely really worry about plants or animals replacing us. Perhaps it is because we assume a position of superiority over them and their intelligence. With AI, though, we’re less certain, especially as evidence grows that it can outperform us in task after task.  To dismiss AI as “just a tool” may be one of our attempts to reaffirming superiority. Over dinner with SIGGRAPH pioneer Julian Gomez, he reminded me of a quote attributed to Albert Einstein: "If you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing it is stupid". Like many other nonhuman intelligences, we insist on judging their abilities according to human terms, comparing them to what we can do and eventually dismissing them for who they are. To be honest, I don’t think we spend enough time acknowledging that despite the fact that these intelligences might not be able to do things we humans do, their abilities are still curious and interesting, and may even be beyond our comprehension. When we insist on a narrow, human-centered lens, we often miss the opportunity to better understand their intelligences.  Moving in and out of the convention center, I kept noticing the nonhumans around me: bee colonies buzzing outside the windows, a cricket landing beside me at lunch, seagulls gliding over the Vancouver port, the lush living roof above the building. Inside, artworks echoed this presence: an animated flock of glass seagulls, a helium sea-mammal balloon flapping its fins in response to visitors’ hand gestures, a delicate mechanical mimosa plant that opened when approached. Reminding us that intelligence, responsiveness, and creativity take many forms.
 Other works invited attendees to reimagine their own bodies and explore other modes of being: mechanical finger extensions positioned as artificial parasites that moved and sensed the world in their own way while being attached to a human body. Another piece offered visitors to experience the presence of an artificial tail attached to their bodies. And our own piece, which I have presented with Adam Wright, invited people to consider having a conversation with inanimate objects, treating them as active, lively entities worthy of attention.   Still other works turned the lens back on human difference, offering immersive perspectives of a baby, a person with ADHD, or a busy, tired, and frustrated mother, reminding us that even human experience is far from uniform.
On the day before last, I was invited by Robert Twomey and Ash Eliza Smith to perform in their Quantum Theatre. They attached QR codes to my body, draped a string of glowy sensors around my neck, and placed a VR headset over my eyes. On stage with me was Scarlett, another performer I had never met, similarly equipped with prompts and sensors. The instructions we received were deliberately vague. Robert and Ash reminded us only to stay aware of our relationship with each other, the objects, the sounds, and the surrounding environment. When the performance began, I had no idea what I was supposed to do. I could still see through the headset, so I was aware of my environment, but at the same time seeing text which overlayed it. Some of this text wasn't legible. I lifted cubes covered in QR codes. Moving them seemed to trigger subtle changes, perhaps in the temperature around my neck, or perhaps in the sounds played aloud. I am not entirely sure what changed and how, in response to some of these changes, my movements shifted. After 15 or 20 minutes of exploration, the demo ended, and I still couldn’t say exactly what had happened exactly.  Later, over coffee with Ash, we talked about how refreshing it feels to embrace not-knowing and open-endedness, especially in a space where, just across the hall, corporate booths are busy presenting polished, finalized, “finished” products, assuming to know exactly what they do and how we might use them. As I leave SIGGRAPH, I carry a clearer sense of my role and responsibility as an artist today. I wish to continue and invite a rethinking of human dominance and superiority. Shifting more regorously into post-humanistic realms I wish to offer participants moments when they can see not only themselves, but also the multitude of intelligences and agencies that surround them. And with that, also invite them to embrace the truth that we may never fully understand it all, and that this, too, is okay. ~~~ Photos shown here include: Photo 1 - An image of me by the SIGGRAPH sign, taken by Adam Wright. Photo 2 - An image of keynote presentasion given by Aaron Hertzmann. Photo 3 - The artwork Plant.play(), a piece by Yoonji Lee, Chang Hee Lee, and Alo Asadipour. Photo 4 - A cricket that joined me for lunch at the Vancouver port. Photo 5 + 6 - the artwork Mimosa Pithics by Scottie Chih-Chieh Huang, Ming-Hong Wu, Hsiu-Mei Chang, and Chin Hsun Liu (left panel) and the artwork Unbound Horizons by Lino Tagliapietra (right panel) Photo 7 - Demo of Spread Your Wings by Mingyang Xu, Yulan Ju, Qing Zhang, Christopher Changmok Kim, Qingyuan Gao, Yun Suen Pai, Giulia Bardareschi, Matthias Hoppe, Kai Kunze, Kout Minamizawa Photo 8 - Demo of Parasitic Finger by Akira Nakayasu, Saki Sakaguchi, and Mina Shobasaki Photo 9 - Adam and I talking with a Pepsi Can at our Fast Forward presentation. Photo taken by Everardo Reyes. Photo 10 + 11 - Demo of Primordial Reality by Taisuke Murakami (left pannel) and Demo of Unbalanced by Yi Chun Ka, Yu Wen Huang, and Yu Ann Lai (right pannel). Both photos taken by the presenters of the work. Photo 12 - Quantum Theatre by Robert Twomey, Ash Eliza Smith. Photo taken by Adam Wright. Lately, I’ve been talking with my hairbrush. Not just holding it like a microphone (though that happens too), but actually asking it questions. What do you think of curly hair versus straight? Do you feel neglected when I forget to pack you for a trip? Are you tired of all the tangles? And the hairbrush responds. It tells me it loves the gentle swoop through curls. It forgives me for leaving it behind. It likes being useful and knows how to handle tangles.  Of course, my hairbrush doesn’t really speak. But if you let an AI augment it, my hairbrush suddenly has a voice. This idea is examined through the artwork in(A)n(I)mate, an interactive AI-driven piece that is designed to invite participants to converse with objects. Participants place an object in front of the box, and with the help of GPT the object begins to “speak” in real time. It answers questions in a voice that can be thoughtful, snarky, poetic, affectionate, depending on what the object is and how GPT interprets it. The experience is playful, funny, and even absurd at first. When you interact with the piece, you might not be aware that you’re speaking to an AI language model. And even if you did know, you begin to feel that maybe, just maybe, this object is actually listening to you, reflecting on an answer, and responding back to your questions. in(A)n(I)mate isn’t trying to trick anyone into believing a hairbrush is sentient. Instead it tries to use AI to mediate a performative encounter between you and the object you brought to the table. At first, it might feel like a quirky tech demo. But slowly, the object you’re speaking with begins to matter in a different way. It invites attention, even empathy. Suddenly, it is no longer just "ready-to-hand" as Martin Heidegger might say—a tool to be used. Instead, it becomes “present-at-hand”: a thing noticed, contemplated, and strangely alive in its own materiality. Throughout this encounter you might begin to wonder: “What is it like to be a hairbrush?” Of course, this question echoes Thomas Nagel’s famous 1974 essay, What is it Like to Be a Bat? In it, Nagel argued that no matter how much we study a bat’s physiology or behavior, we can never fully grasp the subjective experience of being a bat. The “what it is like” from the inside. The bat’s world is shaped by modes of being that are fundamentally inaccessible to human understanding. So when we try to understand what it is like to be a hairbrush, we are limited to our own human frame of reference, and this resource is inadequate to the task. in(A)n(I)mate does not offer an answer. What it offers instead is a speculative encounter where we can explore what it means to even ask what it is like to be a hairbrush. Rather than trying to “solve” the object or extract its inner truth, in(A)n(I)mate uses GPT to approach the object obliquely, through metaphor. Metaphor, as Graham Harman argues, is a powerful method of contact. It gestures toward the object’s surface while honoring its depth. It lets us approach the object as a “sensual” entity, acknowledging that the “real” object remains fundamentally withdrawn. So when the hairbrush responds, we’re not hearing its essence. We’re hearing a performance, shaped by language, data, cultural associations, and GPT’s training. We are allured into contact. We are being called to approach the object differently, to acknowledge that it has a reality apart from us. And that’s the point. GPT doesn’t “know” what it means to be a hairbrush any more than we do, but in mediating this encounter it produces a space of reflection. A space where the object becomes a collaborator in a process of meaning-making.
That shift in perception matters. Jane Bennett talks about vibrant matter and argues that inanimate things possess a kind of liveliness, an agency that isn’t conscious, but still active. She warns that when we think we already know what something is we stop noticing what else it might be. We miss the chance to see the object as an active participant. Bennett encourages us to use a little bit of anthropomorphism in an attempt to better understand what is in front of us. Indeed, these conversations with objects through the in(A)n(I)mate system might reflect our own human perceptions of the objects: the assumptions, stereotypes, and symbolic associations embedded in language and culture. But then again, there might be more to it. N. Katherine Hayles invites us to consider nonconscious cognition. A distributed, relational, and often inaccessible form of thinking that occurs across systems, both human and nonhuman. GPT, in this light, can be seen as a cognitive partner. It doesn’t understand the object. But it doesn’t need to. It connects data, concepts, and patterns in ways that exceed our human capacity, surfacing associations we might not have made. GPT helps us reveal what Hayles calls “latent knowledge.” in(A)n(I)mate thus becomes a stage where multiple forms of cognition converge: the human speaker, the object’s material presence, the training data, the algorithm, the prompt, the tone of voice, the lighting in the room, even the WiFi signal. Meaning emerges not from a single source but from an entangled apparatus. Karen Barad might describe it as a site of intra-action, where agency is not pre-given but co-constituted. Barad’s concept of posthumanist performativity helps us see that the object’s voice is not a static representation of its essence, but the result of a relational performance. The hairbrush in this setting doesn’t have a fixed personality. It is not merely recognized by GPT, it is rather produced by the questions we ask and the AI generated responses. It is becoming throughout the encounter. If we were to ask a different question, give GPT a different prompt, a different framing of the image, the personality of the hairbrush might shift entirely. This relational becoming opens new possibilities for how we relate to the world around us. With the in(A)n(I)mate system we can potentially speak with each and every object. Ian Bogost once wrote, “anything is thing enough to party.” However, Bill Brown, in Thing Theory, reminds us that our understanding of objects often lags behind their being. When technologies change we lose the cultural fluency to recognize the object for what it once was. GPT, trained on contemporary language and associations, may misrecognize objects and be biased for or against particular objects. And yet, even these misrecognitions can be generative. A forgotten object, misunderstood by AI, might speak with a strange, unexpected voice. The in(A)n(I)mate system doesn't offer answers. It offers a relational encounter. And we might ask what if we took these encounters seriously? Consider them as provocations and start caring for objects not just because of their function or exchange value, but because they asked us to? Marshall McLuhan suggested that media are extensions. We might begin to think of GPT not as an extension of the human, but as an extension of objects, allowing them to express themselves in natural language. So maybe the hairbrush has been trying to speak with me all along. We just didn’t have the right interface to hear it. ~~~~~~~~~~ This post shares ideas from my forthcoming SIGGRAPH 2025 Art Paper, co-authored with Adam Wright. We’ll be presenting it next week in Vancouver. Hope to see you there at the Art Papers session! Check it out here: https://dl.acm.org/doi/full/10.1145/3736787 Monday, 11 August, 2025  |
AuthorAvital Meshi - New Media and Performance Artist, making art with AI. Currently a PhD Candidate at the Performance Studies Graduate Group at UC Davis. Archives
November 2025
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