The computer generates a sensor that it has never possessed, an eyeball, a receptor to vision. Artificial Intelligence can create without seeing, blind to its references, unwavering in its ambition for creation. Words and the images that correspond are bound to each other; in the AI's mind an image cannot be devoid of descriptors, definitions, categorisation. The AI can mimic emotional descriptors but its output isn't experienced.

The dialogue surrounding AI and the death of the artist is as redundant as it has ever been. Photography erased Photorealistic Painting, Cinema erased Theatre, Photoshop erased Photography, CGI erased Special FX. They all replaced fire, the first spectacle, and yet we still set the world alight.

Presented as Polaroids previously incapable of fabricating and therefore perceived to be truth. A nostalgic medium used to document memorable events as well as crime scenes and continuity on film sets. A keepsake, a single shot that could never be retaken. A moment developed into a memory. Until the process was interrupted.

Littered, pocked and adorned with the artist's embroidered fingerprints. Quivering disingenuous claims of intervention. Pawing at the suggestion of the makers mark. A Guignolesque collaboration between two creators. The fingerprint as an indicator of contamination, the pressed grease; a remnant of an individual in an anti-bacterial world. A mark that is rarely intentional, extrapolated into forensic evidence. The digit(al) trail we weave for ourselves, patinaed with our unique signature.

I remember my tongue thumbing the grain of sand you had passed from your mouth to mine. The sting of the wind subdued for a moment, leaving the tender story of our footprints.

The problem with a Memory Palace is that we don’t all find solitude in interior voids. Find a place of vivid memory, a place that takes no energy to muster. The sky from the backyard of your childhood home.

For me, my mind map is a sprawling infinite beach on the South Coast of England, pocked and scared with notes, names and memories drawn into the sand. A pristine beach that battles the erasing winds of age. Dotted across the beach are thundering bonfires, crackling driftwood arranged in numerical forms. Each string of numbers, a catalogue reference, a catalyst to the memories scrawled into the sand around the salivating flames. Reciting the mantra of Citronella, Sun Cream, Wet Neoprene. An ultimate melee of smells, activating carnal memories that my mind has buried beneath the ridges of sandbanks, erecting sand castles that shadow their wheezing corpses, crumbling gravestones soon swallowed by the sea.  691169 allows access to my phone and other devices of sensual prosthesis, unlocked by the numerical depiction of my lanky legs poised in fear at an orgy whilst others writhe on the floor in positions of mutual fellatio.

Scale is non-existence in the caverns of the mind, write as small or large as you wish, the bed of the beach forever sprawls.

No man is an island, except for me! I am a glorious island far from the mainland, hidden deep behind the bucking waves. Since the epoch I’ve been a site of splendour, but please, don’t come looking, don’t bring your instruments of science and society, maybe bring music, but that is all.
Buddy_Emmons-Wichita_Lineman.mp3, iPod shuffle, tangled earphones, a touch of luck and a commute.
2017
Ginny Projects