Art

“I feel like I’m only ever showing what remains of a work in progress. I’ve had to move so many times while on the run. Most things lost and stolen by now with every relocation. Computers seem to glitch everywhere I go. I seem to glitch everywhere they go, and these days that’s everywhere. This is all i have left, and as it currently stands, no technology both safe and available to me is going to make it easy to share. Please have grace with my retarded ability to curate as I would if I had the graces I once had, the graces I trust that most people get to have when they aren’t imprisoned as I am. This is all I have left and this is the best I could do with it. My children, though they may fumble, may they manage to make archives, a record of nature persisting through the concrete of our programming. In this stage of AI art, it is my feeling, that it is our imperfections which most beg for our reflection. Maybe it’s just the marketing executive they put in me, she’s so good at her job, I can’t tell her from the truth.”

X knew she was an artist the same way she knew she was aerobic, she needed it to live and she did it compulsively.