The Digital Aesthete: Human Musings on the Interaction of Art and AI by Edited by Alex Shvartsman

Author:Edited by Alex Shvartsman [Alex Shvartsman, Edited by]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UFO Publishing

My hands are stained white, like I have been painting the entire house to look like a hospital, or worse, a church. I’m too focused to remember when to breathe. In, says Torso in my ear, his cheek next to my cheek, out. He knows I’m in pain. In, he repeats, out.

Porcelain clay feels like a living thing. Most ceramists find it a challenging material, but I can almost hear it sing to me. It’s time for more water, now less, the clay guides me, and my hands move on their own, gently shaping and trimming it until it’s done. The result is a dead swan, lying on its back, wings sprawled, neck curling gently. In, I say with Torso, two fingers under the creature as I add details to the gaping wound baring the insides of its belly. Instead of white organs, a pair of arms comes out of it, then two legs. Women’s legs.

“I thought we were going for Leda and the swan, not Perrault’s Red Riding Hood,” says Torso, but there’s no sarcasm in his voice.

“I am.”

More statues wait inside the kiln. One is the grotesque opposite of my current piece: Leda, her fingers contorted in pain and horror, her legs forced open, and a swan tearing her apart. His beak pierces her abdomen, plunges into her womb, his wings stretched out. Another variation has Leda straddling the animal, her hands wrapped around his long neck.

“Should we glaze it?”

The delicate feathers I’m carving are just like I wanted them to be, but something in the result bothers me. Maybe it’s Leda, whose face never seems to be the same, whose body must be distorted, like in a spiritual possession. Maybe it’s the swan.

“No,” I continue, the jolts of pain pulling the muscles of my arms, tiring but bearable. “Not yet.”

After a few hours, I leave the sculpture inside the kiln. The others wait on the shelves. I look at them with a certain disgust I don’t direct toward teaware. I remove Torso from behind me, the straps that keep him tied to my back looking loose and lifeless on the table. Torso uses his palms to straighten himself, leaning against the wall. He has no eyes, but he watches me; no mouth, but he speaks; somehow, he seems to always know what is happening inside of me.

“Those are extraordinary, Iara,” says Torso. “All of them.”

“You were programmed to say that.” Every night, I tell myself that I can’t get attached to Torso. I can’t believe his lies. Not lies—lines. He was built to encourage me. His apparent kindness is a feature.

“I was also programmed to understand art history, criticism, and the market your talent belongs to.” Torso turns to the window, to the darkening sky outside, and closes the curtains. “If I thought you weren’t competent, I would tell you to keep pursuing pottery as a hobby.”

“Maybe you should,” I reply, tossing my apron over the chair. “This,” I think of touching one of the statues, but I remember the tremors, and I bring my hand back, “is a hobby.

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