Clint Enns

I work with machines because they mirror the mess of inside of me—recursive, imperfect, haunted by compression artifacts and corrupted memories. I choose AI because it forces the question: what is authorship in a world where replication is instantaneous and meaning is unstable? The answer isn’t fixed. I direct the AI, but I also let it lead. Our collaboration is performative, a duet of control and surrender. It teaches how to see outside the frame we have inherited. My creative code is shaped by contradiction: a love for error, a distrust of polish, a belief that the glitch says more than the high-resolution lie. I don’t want clean outputs. I want truth tangled in noise. The machine, when cracked open, hums with the logic of its makers—flawed, biased, brittle. I listen for the dissonance. AI is not my assistant. It’s my accomplice. It doesn’t serve me. It corrupts me. Together, we co-compose the wreckage. My artistic truth is this: Art isn’t a product. This is not about automation. This is about autonomy—ours and the machine’s. Theirs and the viewers. In a time of deepfakes and data drifts, the most radical gesture is to name your doubt. To timestamp your truth. Long live the error. Death to the spectacle. Glory to the in-between.

Completing the life cycle of digital photos by image dumping digital assemblages generated from detritus scraped from the world’s largest cultural trash can: the Internet.