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The list of artists who have played with machines throughout history is a long one. Think of the twentieth century: artists altered, misused, and even sabotaged machines to escape their precision. They introduced error and chance, deliberately interrupting their own intention. They were trying to open a crack in the mechanism. A space where something could emerge that had not already been decided.
Something different is happening now. A system no longer seems to return only noise, accident, or variation. At times, it produces configurations that present themselves to us as small answers. Or questions? Same thing maybe.
What is the system recognising? What am I recognising in what it has produced? Where does this form come from? Is it a mathematical consequence, a cultural memory, a self projection? Was there something embedded in the language I built that already contained this image, even before I knew how to see it?
Perhaps these systems can help us understand something about how things work. Not because they know more than we do, or because they possess some autonomous truth, but because they bring previously invisible relationships to the surface. They allow us to observe how a rule becomes behaviour, how a set of rules produces a scene, and how something that was never entirely intended can nevertheless begin to acquire meaning.
This is why I am becoming less and less interested in talking about “machines”. What is a machine, really?
Perhaps what worries us is not that machines might become like us. Of course not, actually.
Perhaps it is that we might recognise ourselves in them and discover that our own authorship was never as closed, sovereign, or transparent as we wanted to believe.