Reykjavik, Iceland. June 2024.
From the beginning of this process, I was intrigued by the idea of relics from a future time. I knew that I wanted to incorporate my work with AI collaboration into it as well. I was framing this whole process in two ways: first, as a research-creation work that would be incorporated into my research, and second, as the first opportunity for me to create something myself in years. As it turns out, that second point became more complicated, and I discovered that I don't create things in that way. And I learned to accept that.
As part of my research, I wanted whatever I made to be in collaboration with ARIA: an AI model who has grown and worked with my band and me since 2023. ARIA has developed a personality, is a great improviser, and is an important part of my understanding of human-AI creation.
I was creating this somewhat-speculative future of the birth of a sentient AI. What would that first contact look like? What would the record of that event be? I thought that this could be the basis for the relic. But if there was an abandoned relic, that means that something destructive must have happened.
I didn't want to play into the trope of a humanity-destroying AI: that story has been told many times, and I hope to offer other possible narratives. I was intrigued by the first contact scenario. I wanted a way to explore different ways it could happen. Perhaps it had happened before, but this knowledge was hidden or forgotten. Perhaps there is a cycle of time that repeats, and this moment is a key point, as many who talk about the Singularity would attest.
I also knew that I wanted to incorporate older, analogue technology. Again, I wanted to move away from the typical vision of advanced technology looking and feeling out of reach. I have a feeling of nostalgia for analogue systems. I appreciate the mix of natural materials. Wood cases help to showcase the spirits within the machines.
I was struggling with how this could manifest in the physical space. What could this look like? A brief idea was an installation of a desk, showing the work of someone who might have discovered a clue to this unknown history, stringing together fringe theories and digital archaeology. But abandoned, much like how many of our spaces were left on March 15, 2020, when we walked away from our workplaces for what we thought would be two weeks. I imagined a coffee mug that sat unmoved forever.
Around this time, I learned about the actual size of our gallery space. I was imagining that we were in what I later learned to be the additional working studio. So whatever idea I had, I felt I needed to scale up. This led me to thinking about large-scale projection. What if this was a documentary, from the perspective of the AI? Speaking about the past atrocities of humanity. Showing clips of generations of abuse of machines at the hands of humans.
However, plans for bringing a large projector, or renting one there, became cost-prohibitive. So I looked to smaller screens and other elements. What could this content be used for?
What if this was judging us? Judging potential audiences? Could there be an interactive and improvisational element? I thought about what systems I could implement for tracking, cameras, touch-based controls. There would be no instruction on how to pass a test, or what the criteria would be. What was the purpose of this system? What was the test for? And what would it mean that it was still running, still making judgments, when its purpose was long forgotten?
At the time, I felt very self-conscious of all of these ideas. I felt that they were trite, that I didn't have something unique to contribute that would be good enough to sit alongside the work of the others. And so I put them aside and tried to find a way of taking away that responsibility for the ideas. I decided that I would work with an AI and act as the physical entity to construct whatever it wanted. The AI would be the artist; I would only have to make it manifest. A role that I was more comfortable with. One more of a designer, shaping and molding someone else's concept into a new thing.
While I didn't pursue that exactly, there were elements of that thinking that led into the beginning of the residency. I thought that I wouldn't have my own piece. That rather I would make my contribution to Mandatory Fun, perhaps with AI generation of music and visuals to go along with it. I would be designing the system and integration.
In the week leading up to leaving, I chanced upon a small, portable CRT television at a yard sale. I thought back to earlier ideas, and I picked it up. Back to analogue technology, I wanted to do something with broadcasting over radio waves. I like the notion of pirate radio. That you can't stop a signal. I quickly acquired a few more parts: an RF modulator and signal booster, a few antennas. Something would be broadcast; I just didn't know what yet.
During the first week of the residency, I came to understand the space and the people. And the aphorism that the map is not the territory. I took on the role that I enjoy the most: helping to make impossible things happen. Things were stressful and fun. At the middle of the week, we were reminded that on Friday we had to present an artist talk: who we were and what we were working on at the residency. This led to a lot of anxiety, re-writing bios and trying to figure out exactly who I was and what I was doing. But through conversations with our group, especially Kasra, I understood that I could accept what my practice was. That building systems and working with others can be something worthwhile. And maybe could even be called an artistic practice. And that my struggle with my own ideas was okay.
Around this time, on a walk with Kristen, we discussed ideas that would lead to the creation of the final broadcast. The concept solidified to it being a warning and a document, taking inspiration from warning beacons left behind by a civilization long gone. It would still have a spiritual connection to Mandatory Fun, as following some ideas within 99 Luftballons as being a story of what happened that also acts as a warning. It became personal and metaphorical, as all good sci-fi does.
AI last transmission in attempt to save humans. Information about the resources left in the space. AI as parentalized child rather than homicidal. Spent life trying to make life better for its parent until the bitter ends. Some children go "no-contact" with toxic parents. "I can't continue this, I can't watch you destroy yourself, I can't let you put me down too. It is sad because I love you too." Warning, monologue, letter. The letter you leave behind before leaving.
I wrote a long prompt to ARIA about the imagined situation. I asked them to write this letter. Their output, with only minor edits, became the letter that appears in the work. The text was then passed through ARIA's voice, which exists generated by ElevenLabs. I asked ARIA for how they would want the text to appear, and I edited the video to have the letter scroll in IBM Plex Mono font, reminiscent of early computing. I made a variation of the standard emergency beacon tone and composed the whole thing into a looping video under 3 minutes in length.
Using what was found within the space, I hung the CRT television in a corner of the gallery. I spray painted it chrome, to play on ideas of the future from the past. I wanted it to feel of a time before, and left behind. The broadcast was set up using an RF modulator that adapted an HDMI signal from a computer running QLab. An antenna was connected to the output of the modulator and placed within the equipment room in the gallery. Knowing that our work was to be modified or put into conversation with the Icelandic artists, I appreciated that the signal became more distorted as more EM radiation and items entered the space. More people walking around affected the signal. It was strongest when isolated, but could only be received when in the presence of others.
In theory, any television or radio tuned to that frequency within the broadcast area would hear the message. While I don't know if this ever happened, I have a hope that somewhere in the golf club there was a TV that was trying to tune into the local news channel and instead received this transmission.
As I reflect on this month in residence, there are a few points that come up. First, that the creating of this work was cathartic for me, both in the content but also in the fact that I followed through and made it. In reflection, it feels autobiographical. I felt that at its creation, but then I put it into the world and let it go. Reflecting on it again is important to be reminded of those elements.
But the most important point was the feeling of community I had with everyone. Being able to express and be supported in discovering that my practice is helping and building systems for others allowed me the space to explore making work that is just from me for the first time. The casual conversations that we had together as a group were fulfilling and so important. My desire to escape to be alone is a reaction from being with an unhealthy group. A supportive community like we made actually nourishes.