Author Archives: Pau Waelder

Philippe Ceulemans: Creating Conditions for Contemplation

Pau Waelder

Based in Antwerp, Belgian artist Philippe Ceulemans approaches both oil painting and digital art not as opposites, but as two different ways of exploring the same underlying questions of perception, structure, and space. Moving away from generative AI models to write every line of his algorithms by hand, he treats code as a raw, tactile material—much like the pigments and metal leaf he applies to his physical canvases. Here, Ceulemans discusses how the quiet, un-spectacular beauty of the Kempen landscape shapes his minimalist ethos, why he uses light-absorbing pigments like Black 3.0 to explore silence, and how slow, intentional digital movement can create a space for contemplation in a moving world.

Philippe Ceulemans. Power Flower I — Electric Orchid, 2025

Looking at your oil paintings, particularly the abstract compositions, as well as your interest in stillness and silence, I wonder if this has been influenced by the natural surroundings of Turnhout and its natural reserves. Can you elaborate on the connections between the Kempen landscape and your work?

Very much so.

The Kempen landscape is not spectacular in the way mountains or coastlines are spectacular. Its beauty is quieter. It reveals itself slowly. I think that has influenced me deeply.

I spend a lot of time walking in the forests and nature reserves around Turnhout. What stays with me is not a particular tree or view, but a feeling: the silence, the openness, the changing light, the sense that everything is moving while appearing still.

That experience has become central to my work. I am not interested in depicting nature literally. I am interested in translating the experience of being present within it. Whether I work on canvas or write code, I am searching for a space where attention slows down and where the viewer can become more aware of subtle things.

In that sense, the Kempen landscape is present in almost everything I create, even when it is no longer visible.

Philippe Ceulemans. Aqua e Sole. Oil on canvas, 100 x 100 cm.

In your paintings there is a clear interest in nature, but also in going beyond depiction to look for structures, movement, flows, that directly connect with your digital artworks. Can you tell us more about how your creative process transits between canvas and code?

For me, painting and coding are simply two different ways of exploring the same questions.

When I paint, I work with color, texture, layering, and material. When I write code, I work with movement, mathematics, repetition, transformation, and emergence. But the underlying curiosity remains the same.

“I am not interested in depicting nature literally. I am interested in translating the experience of being present within it.”

Ideas often travel back and forth between the two practices. A texture discovered in a painting may inspire a digital system. A mathematical behavior discovered while coding may later influence a painting.

I think both practices are really about observing relationships. How elements interact. How complexity can emerge from simplicity. How order and unpredictability coexist.

Many people see technology and painting as opposites. I don’t. For me they are simply different tools for exploring perception. 

Philippe Ceulemans. Bermuda Triangle. Oil on canvas, Black 3.0 pigment. 100 x 120 cm.

The use of the Black 3.0 (or Vantablack-like) pigment is an interesting indication of your interest in going beyond traditional forms of painting on canvas and looking for new forms of perception. It is also interesting that this pigment is linked to the pioneering work of another Belgian artist, Frederik De Wilde. What drove you to use this pigment, and how do you see the concepts of silence and nothingness represented by the color black in both your canvases and your digital work?

My interest in Black 3.0 was never about finding the darkest possible black. It was about perception.

When you stand in front of a surface that absorbs so much light, something unusual happens. It almost stops behaving like a color and starts behaving like an absence. It challenges the way we normally read space, form, and depth.

That fascinated me.

I have always been interested in silence, emptiness, and stillness —not as negative concepts, but as spaces of possibility. Black can function in that way. It removes distractions. It creates room.

I often think about silence in music. Silence is not the absence of sound. It is what allows sound to have meaning. Black operates in a similar way within my work.

The same idea appears in my digital pieces. Moments where movement becomes extremely slow, where forms dissolve, or where visual information becomes minimal are often the moments that interest me most. They create space for reflection rather than consumption.

“I have always been interested in silence, emptiness, and stillness as spaces of possibility. Black can function in that way. It removes distractions. It creates room.”

Your interest in science is also patent in series such as The Unrepeatable Field, which is inspired by cellular structures and the possibilities of expressing them through mathematical formulas. Can you elaborate on how this scientific view of nature complements the more poetic aspects of your work, and how it is shaped by creative coding?

I have always been fascinated by the fact that nature combines strict rules with endless variation.

A cell follows certain principles. A tree follows certain principles. An ecosystem follows certain principles. Yet no two outcomes are ever exactly the same.

That tension fascinates me.

Science helps us understand the structures behind the visible world, while art allows us to experience them emotionally. I don’t see those approaches as contradictory. I see them as complementary. Creative coding has become a natural extension of this interest. Through mathematics and algorithms, I can create systems that behave in a similar way. I establish a framework, but I never know exactly what will emerge from it.

The Unrepeatable Field was born from that idea: that uniqueness is not the exception in nature, but its fundamental condition.

Philippe Ceulemans. A Singularity Flow — The Unrepeatable Field II, 2026

You underscore the fact that you do not use AI models in your work but rather write every line of code. This brings to mind the craft behind applying pigments to a canvas to create a work of art. Please tell us about your decision to move away from AI and how you carry out your creative process writing algorithms.

I don’t consider myself anti-AI. I find the technology fascinating and I follow its development with great interest.

At the same time, I realized early on that it wasn’t the path I wanted to take in my own artistic practice.

What attracts me is the process of building something myself. I enjoy understanding every mechanism that contributes to the final work. When I paint, I work directly with materials. When I write code, I work directly with systems.

In many ways, coding feels surprisingly close to painting.

I often spend weeks or months developing a visual idea. A small mathematical adjustment can completely change the behavior of an artwork and lead me somewhere unexpected. Those discoveries are some of the most rewarding moments in my practice.

For that reason, I write all my own code and do not use generative AI models in the creation of my artworks.

The process is slower, but it allows me to maintain a direct relationship with every aspect of the work. The algorithms themselves become part of the artwork. They are not just tools used to create images—they are artistic material.

“Science helps us understand the structures behind the visible world, while art allows us to experience them emotionally.”

You have described your work as “a still point inside the moving world.” Your attention to a more meditative and calm artistic expression can be clearly perceived throughout your work, but since your digital artworks incorporate motion, I’d like to know how you create motion to denote stillness and introspection.

This is probably the central question in my work.

I am interested in motion that does not seek attention. Most moving images today compete for our attention through speed, intensity, and constant change. My work moves in the opposite direction. The movement is often extremely slow, sometimes almost imperceptible.

I am not interested in creating images. I am interested in creating conditions for contemplation.

Paradoxically, very slow movement can make us more aware of stillness. It changes the way we experience time. The work remains active, yet it can feel calm and stable.

I often think of these pieces less as animations and more as environments for perception. Their purpose is not to tell a story. Their purpose is to create a space in which reflection becomes possible.

Philippe Ceulemans. After Ice III — Residue, 2026

“I am not interested in creating images. I am interested in creating conditions for contemplation.”

Many of your works feel particularly timeless, subtly suggesting ancient symbols and rituals, as is the case of the Aureate series. While you state that you do not intend to dictate meaning, the choice of colors, textures, and elements does insert a certain narrative, albeit subtle and open to interpretation. How do you play with the balance between creating a purely abstract composition and hinting at certain meanings?

I am very interested in the space between recognition and ambiguity.

If everything is explained, the viewer has little room to participate. If nothing is recognizable, it can become difficult to establish a connection.

I try to work somewhere in between.

Certain colors, forms, textures, and spatial relationships naturally evoke memories, symbols, or cultural references. Rather than defining their meaning, I prefer to leave them unresolved.

The Aureate works are a good example. Some viewers see ritual objects, sacred spaces, ancient architecture, or spiritual symbols. Others see purely abstract compositions.

Both responses are valid.

I want the work to remain open enough that viewers can bring their own experiences and interpretations into it.

“The algorithms themselves become part of the artwork. They are not just tools used to create images—they are artistic material.”

Tell us a bit about Lumin820 and your collaboration with your brother Olivier. Has his photographic work influenced your creative process? How do your visions of the world connect?

Lumin820 grew out of a shared fascination with observation, light, and image-making. Although Olivier and I work in different mediums, I think we share a similar sensitivity toward the world around us. We are both interested in looking beyond the obvious and paying attention to things that are often overlooked.

His photographic work has certainly influenced me. Photography teaches patience. It teaches observation. It teaches the importance of light and atmosphere.

At the same time, our approaches remain distinct. Olivier works through the camera, while I often move toward abstraction, painting, and algorithmic systems.

What connects us is a desire to create work that invites people to slow down and look more carefully.

Philippe Ceulemans. Aureate Radiant Core, 2026

Your digital artworks are displayed on screens in public spaces such as hotel lobbies and offices through platforms such as Niio. How do you imagine the experience of the viewer and the interaction between the artwork and the surrounding space in these contexts?

I find these contexts very interesting because they are different from traditional exhibition spaces.

People do not necessarily arrive with the intention of looking at art. They encounter the artwork while moving through everyday life.

Because my pieces evolve slowly, they can operate almost like a presence within a space. Someone may notice the work briefly, walk away, and then encounter it again later from a different perspective.

I like that relationship.

Rather than demanding attention, the work can coexist with its environment and gradually influence the atmosphere of a space. If it encourages someone to pause for a moment or become more aware of their surroundings, then it has already achieved something meaningful.

“Rather than demanding attention, the work can coexist with its environment and gradually influence the atmosphere of a space.”

Philippe Ceulemans. Papaver Nocturne, 2026

Given your interest in taking art beyond the canvas, have you considered creating artworks for immersive environments using Virtual Reality technology, or developing Augmented Reality pieces that could be connected to a specific location?

Absolutely.

Many of the ideas I explore already exist beyond the limits of a traditional frame. They deal with space, perception, movement, and presence. Immersive technologies therefore feel like a natural extension of that exploration. What interests me most is not spectacle but experience.

Much immersive technology focuses on stimulation and visual impact. I would be more interested in creating contemplative environments—places where viewers can slow down, reflect, and experience a different relationship with time and space.

Augmented reality also offers exciting possibilities because it allows digital artworks to enter into dialogue with specific locations, landscapes, or historical contexts.

For now my focus remains on painting and hand-coded digital works, but I definitely see immersive environments as a possible future chapter in my practice.

Addy Feuerstein: “Live Your Own Time, Child”

Pau Waelder  

Addy Feuerstein is a tech entrepreneur, designer, and AI artist. On the occasion of the launch of the “Artificial Nostalgia” artcast on Niio, we talked about his retro-futuristic universe, where he utilizes generative AI tools like Midjourney to recreate the elegant, optimistic machine aesthetics of the 1950s and 60s as a way to explore how the past envisioned our present. Throughout the conversation, Feuerstein reflects on his collaborative relationship with Midjourney in the creation of this series and addresses the contemporary skepticism surrounding AI art, sharing his insights on how modern artists must become multi-faceted curators of their own distribution channels while embracing the cultural shifts of our digital era.

Addy Feuerstein. Artificial Nostalgia – Triptych #1, 2026

As a tech entrepreneur and designer, you have extensive experience in the tech and design industries. What drove you to develop an artistic persona, and how do you navigate the art world compared to the tech and design communities?

I never experienced these worlds as separate. I studied art and design, and although after school I was immediately drawn to tech, it was always there in the background, so in a way I feel like I’m coming full circle now.

The same topics that I explore in my art, such as time, the relationship between people and technology, and the sense of an individual within a crowd, were always present in my entrepreneurial career, mainly in my first startup, AllofMe, which explored personal memory through digital timeline representations. For example, you could explore your life in parallel with a historical technology timeline and examine how you were affected by it.

The interesting aspect here is that AI artists are very much tech entrepreneurs themselves. The development of the tools is happening so fast that you must be very tech-oriented to keep up. So, it actually feels very familiar to tech.

For me personally, generative AI is particularly rewarding. I was always a very visually oriented person. My dream was to become an architect, but unfortunately, I can’t draw very well. AI allows me to “paint with my mind” and create visuals that were not possible for me before, so it feels like I was suddenly awarded a new limb. It’s like a dream come true, and in a way, I feel like I have been waiting for it my whole life.

“AI artists are tech entrepreneurs themselves. AI is evolving so fast that you must be very tech-oriented to keep up.”

Artists often describe their relationship with AI tools as a “collaboration,” in which the AI system has a certain agency that can shape the outcome beyond the artist’s imagination. In this sense, how is your relationship with the tools that you use? How do you balance the willingness to control the outcome and the openness to be surprised by it?

Oh, it’s definitely a collaboration, and possibly even more. When I first exhibited the Artificial Nostalgia series at Reichman University, I gave the AI full credit. The sign next to the work read: “By Addy Feuerstein and Midjourney”.

When I work with AI, I sometimes intentionally try to confuse it using contradictory prompts mixed with poetic phrases, just to see where it takes me. Those are often the moments when I get the most surprising results. Then I take the variations that resonate with me and regenerate them again and again, gradually narrowing toward a direction that feels right.

In a way, I feel like my process mirrors the AI’s ‘diffusion’ process itself: the AI extracts an image out of noise, and I extract meaning and direction out of the AI’s noise. We are both reducing randomness, just at different levels. A single image can sometimes go through more than 100 variations before I feel like we finally “got it right”.

Addy Feuerstein. Artificial Nostalgia – The Mix, 2026

The artist Gregory Chatonsky has coined the term “Artificial Imagination (AIm)” to describe the idea that in the context of AI, an image is not a trace of reality but one in many possibilities within a latent space, and therefore it is a type of imagination not grounded in real experience but in mathematical probability. What is your take on this concept, and how would you relate it to your work?

I didn’t know that term. This is a very interesting claim.

I think that AI is basically a gigantic vocabulary of everything that has happened so far. Generative AI is, in a way, a visual index of human history that was fed into it. So one could argue, however, that it is in fact based on “grounded real-life experiences,” which also raises another question: isn’t our own human imagination itself based on a kind of mathematical probability?

“A single image can sometimes go through more than 100 variations before I feel like we finally «got it right».”

For example, when we watch a really good movie that moves us emotionally, we often develop a sense of “false nostalgia” for the time and place it represents. Are those feelings based on “grounded real-life experiences,” or on the fictional movie we just saw? And what about books, paintings, or photography?

This is exactly the “big question” I was trying to explore in Artificial Nostalgia, and I don’t have the answer. Instead, I now have even more questions. But I might have some observations: I can say that AI does an amazing job of rendering false memories that emotionally move me, perhaps more than any other medium I know.

Addy Feuerstein. Artificial Nostalgia – Triptych #2, 2026

You have expressed your preference for Midjourney. Can you elaborate on it and on how the choice of tools can determine the path of an artistic project?

It’s true. While generative AI models have developed at an amazingly rapid pace, Midjourney still stands out as a tool that enables extremely strong visual interpretations. This is not an accident. It works differently from many of the other tools. It relies on large-scale human crowd rating of “what is beautiful,” and therefore it has a massive aesthetic bias. It is heavily optimized to prioritize lighting, composition, atmosphere, and artistic flair, and most of all, it enables users to build their own personal “style” and teach the model what they themselves find beautiful.

When I work with it, it feels like we’re collaborating. I suggest directions, and Midjourney reacts with dozens of variations. I choose what I like, and it takes it from there and creates additional variations. It often surprises me with visual ideas I hadn’t thought about myself. I love this process. It feels like a ping-pong game.

The bottom line is that before Midjourney, I wasn’t creating the kind of work that I do today, and I probably could not have done it with any other tool. It allows me to create images I could previously only imagine.

“When I work with Midjourney, it feels like we’re collaborating. It often surprises me with visual ideas I hadn’t thought about myself. I love this process. It feels like a ping-pong game.”

Artificial Nostalgia uses AI to imagine a retrofuturistic world. What fascinates you about the technology and aesthetics of the 1950s and early 1960s? Is it the perception of technology as something bright and full of promise, in contrast to the more somber and dystopian views that have dominated since the 1970s?

I never really lived through the 1950s, and I was an infant in the 1960s, so obviously this is, in itself, a kind of “artificial nostalgia.”

It seems to me, however, that after World War II, which was probably the great shaping and provoking event of modern history, the world entered an unbelievably creative and, more importantly, liberating period. You can see it in art, in industrial design, in cinema, and in the music of that era. People in that period imagined the future as elegant, domestic, and almost theatrical. Technology appeared to be something understandable and aspirational rather than invisible and overwhelming.

From a design perspective, it was the era of machinery that was clear and visible. Form followed function. Bauhaus, the International Style, and even Streamline Moderne. This aesthetic simply moves me.

Today, in a way, technology itself has become hidden. Hardware has become software, as much of the technology we use now is concealed inside computers and networks, so the design often becomes just an empty UX shell. A simulacrum. I wanted to explore that emotional contradiction in Artificial Nostalgia.

By recreating imagined past futures with contemporary AI tools, the project creates a layered time loop: people from the present generating images of how people in the past imagined our present.

Addy Feuerstein. Artificial Nostalgia – The Film Drive, 2026

This series features both still images and short animations. How would you compare them, in terms of their production, the narrative, and the viewer’s experience?

The original installation of Artificial Nostalgia is exhibited as a three-screen triptych that randomly cycles through over 360 images and runs endlessly. Currently, about 70 of them include motion.

I wanted to find a way to surprise the viewer with a very subtle, almost unnoticeable difference between the still images and the videos. When you look at the installation, sometimes you’re not sure whether the image you just saw had actually moved or not.

I use a “time remapping” effect to start the motion very slowly, accelerate it momentarily, and then gradually freeze the frame again. This effect is very engaging because viewers stand in front of the piece and try to “catch” the motion.

The funny thing is that since some of the visuals are presented both as still images and as videos, I myself sometimes don’t know whether a piece is going to move or not, and occasionally I’m not even sure whether it actually did.

“Artificial Nostalgia creates a layered time loop: people from the present generating images of how people in the past imagined our present.”

You have participated in Peter Gabriel’s 50:50, a project inviting creators to imagine music videos for his songs. How was your experience participating in this project? Besides this particular project, you frequently create music videos with your studio UrbanOrigami.art. Is AI creation, with its unlimited possibilities of image creation, its tendency to surrealism, and its ability to create seamless flows between images, particularly apt for music videos? How do you integrate each song’s lyrics and music into your creations?

I think that music is probably one of the genres in which the sense of false “Artificial Nostalgia” feels especially strong. I see my children listening today to The Beatles, Pink Floyd, and Neil Young. What does this mean? It seems to me that this world is full of nostalgia by definition, and that we are all constantly trying to reimagine the past.

Participating in Peter Gabriel’s 50:50 project was, first of all, a great honor, as he is one of my all-time favorite artists. It was particularly exciting because it enabled me to interpret his beautiful 1977 song ‘Here Comes the Flood’ from today’s perspective. If you read the lyrics and Gabriel’s own expansion of them, you could see that he almost predicted today’s internet flood of information, and in a way even the AI revolution, back in the 1970s. I find that amazing.

“I love creating music videos because they leave vast room for imagination and storytelling, which is perfect for generative AI.”

I love creating music videos because they are usually open to interpretation, so they leave vast room for imagination and storytelling, which is perfect for generative AI. Besides, I guess I envy musicians. I wish I could write music. It’s a very liberating art form with an immediate emotional reward. So, I guess this is the closest I can get to it.

Addy Feuerstein. Artificial Nostalgia – Triptych #3, 2026

You have exhibited your work in art galleries, museums, festivals, online marketplaces, streaming platforms such as Niio, and have even created merchandise. What can you tell us about the possibilities and challenges that artists face when distributing their work through these different spaces and channels?

Well, I think the main challenge for AI artists is overcoming people’s fear, or even hatred, toward generative AI. It has a very bad reputation, and I can understand why. Much of the AI imagery currently being created does not feel very original. Frankly, it is a world that is full of crap, especially given the huge amount of fake and cringe imagery out there. Because of this, many people automatically reject anything that carries an “AI” label. I see that often on my Instagram.

At the same time, there is a growing movement of artists who are seriously trying to understand this new medium, explore what it means, and discover what can be done with it artistically. I think we are still in the very early stages of that process.

“Artists are no longer just creating art. We are also constantly curating ourselves, promoting ourselves, building audiences, and adapting work to very different environments.”

Additionally, one of the most interesting shifts happening today is that distribution itself has become part of artistic practice. Artists are no longer just creating art. We are also constantly curating ourselves, promoting ourselves, building audiences, and adapting work to very different environments such as galleries, streaming platforms, social media, merchandise, and digital installations.

You mentioned festivals. In a way, I think FilmFreeway has done to the film festival industry something a little similar to what Airbnb did to the hosting industry. It lowered the barrier to entry so much that suddenly there are far more festivals than before. So it became very difficult to understand which ones are actually worth your time and money.

Each space changes the way the work is experienced. A gallery invites contemplation, while Instagram encourages speed and endless scrolling. A museum creates context, while merchandise turns an artwork into an object people can physically live with. Navigating between all these worlds has become part of the creative process itself, and it is very much a full-time job.

Addy Feuerstein. Artificial Nostalgia – The Jellyfish Triptych, 2026

Nowadays even the Pope warns us about the dangers of AI. Do you think that artistic creation with AI tools can provide a more positive perception of artificial intelligence or help us understand it better, both with its bright and dark sides?

When I first wrote about Artificial Nostalgia, my first question was: “If you had a time machine, would you travel to the past or to the future?” I got surprisingly mixed answers, but for me, I’m pretty sure I would choose the future. I never feared technology, and I have always embraced it with excitement and curiosity.

So, to answer the question, I never fully understood the fear surrounding AI. I think that part of the artist’s “job” is to try to understand and express the world they are living in, and we are currently living in an AI world.

One of my favorite movies is Todd Haynes’s ‘I’m Not There’, the fictionalized Bob Dylan biography. I always remembered one quote from it, when the kid who plays the supposedly young Dylan, while performing old country music, is told by an elderly woman: “Live your own time, child.” I love that quote, and I try to live by it. The Times They Are A-Changin’, and we are all living in an AI world now. So, live your own time, child.

“The artist’s «job» is to try to understand and express the world they are living in, and we are currently living in an AI world.”

Elsa Carvalho: The Art of Impermanence

Pau Waelder

Elsa Carvalho’s path into visual art began not in a studio, but in the structured logic of computer science. A Portuguese software engineer with a PhD completed in 2012, she turned toward artistic creation in 2021, at a moment when the NFT movement opened new doors for digital experimentation. On the occasion of her solo artcast The Unfolding on Niio, we asked her a series of questions about her artistic practice and creative process.

In this conversation, Carvalho reflects on how poetry and coding share a common ground in working within constraints, how open access to AI tools made image-making accessible to her as a newcomer to visual art, and how she gradually moved from early experimentation toward a more personal visual language.

Elsa Carvalho. TheUnfolding#1, 2025.

You work as a software engineer but you have also always been interested in the arts, and have written poetry and prose. How would you relate poetry and literature to creative coding?

In my professional practice I always felt that coding is a very creative activity. Although this may seem counterintuitive, because it is full of rules and constraints, the fact is that you are creating something and, in the end, a result will emerge. There are different ways of achieving the same result, and the process of searching for and choosing a path is something I find very appealing. Often, what matters is not only the final output, but the decisions made along the way.

The same happens with writing. There are rules in language as well, but they can be bent or broken for poetic reasons. In creative coding I feel a similar freedom: working within constraints, but still allowing intuition, experimentation, and small deviations that can change the outcome.  

“Creative coding means working within constraints, but still allowing intuition, experimentation, and small deviations that can change the outcome.”

You decided to dive into visual art in 2021, at the time of the NFT boom. How did the NFT scene shape your understanding of art, and how has it evolved over the last years?

The NFT movement was the trigger for me to start exploring digital art. It felt like something important was happening and I wanted to be part of it, not to be left out of what seemed like a meaningful way to step into digital creation. In many ways, it was the entry point that allowed me to discover this artistic side of myself.

At that time, I had no experience with digital art, and that was one of the reasons AI attracted me so much. It opened the possibility to experiment visually without a traditional background. In that sense, AI felt very democratizing, allowing many people, including myself, to explore image-making in a more accessible way.

More recently, my relationship with that space has changed. I became more interested in slower processes and in developing a personal visual language. Discovering platforms like Niio, where my work can exist on large screens or in people’s living spaces, appeals to me more now than the NFT space itself. Still, I feel I will always be connected to that movement, as it was the precursor to my entry into the artistic world, and I owe a lot to it for opening that door.

Elsa Carvalho. TheUnfolding#2, 2025.

As a software expert, you know how software can shape what a user is able to do or even think they can do. Over the last decades, artists working with code have developed new tools that allow them to bypass the limitations of commercial software, and created a community around sharing. What do you think of this open source movement and how has it helped you as an artist?

I think the open source movement is very relevant and powerful. One of its biggest strengths is that it allows people to bypass the high costs of commercial software and to build tools together that anyone can use. This kind of shared effort has a real impact and reaches millions of people.

In my own practice, I did not take full advantage of artist-led open source tools, but open access to AI algorithms was essential for me in the beginning. Having Google notebooks available, with increasingly better GAN models and later other algorithms, was what allowed me to start experimenting with AI and image generation.

I also used non-paid platforms like Artbreeder, especially in my early exploration, alongside commercial AI tools. So my path was a mix of open, shared resources and proprietary software. Without that initial access to open algorithms and notebooks, I probably would not have entered this field in the same way.

“Discovering platforms like Niio, where my work can exist on large screens or in people’s living spaces, appeals to me more now than the NFT space itself.”

You use creative coding to generate visuals that then feed into an AI model to create a unique visual language. Can you take us through this process?

My process usually starts with creative coding. Through code, I generate images with more geometric structures, and this is where the core aesthetic of the work is defined. At this stage, I also establish the color palette and the visual coherence that runs through the series.

These images then become the starting point for the use of AI. AI allows me to introduce more organic qualities into the visuals, inspired by natural forms. It transforms the geometric structures and adds a layer of complexity and softness that I could not achieve through code alone.

From there, I curate the resulting images and use them as the basis for video works. I use AI tools to create the videos, either by introducing movement into the images or by morphing between different images. This final step allows the work to unfold over time and reinforces the idea of transformation that is central to my practice.

“I started my artistic practice with a mix of open, shared resources and proprietary software. Without that initial access to open algorithms and notebooks, I probably would not have entered this field in the same way.”

Both creative coding and artistic creation with AI deal with the tension between controlling the output and letting the program surprise you. How do you manage this tension? Do you sometimes fear that a good visual might be ruined once interpreted by the AI?

There is always a balance between control and surprise in my process. With creative coding, I have more control over structure, color, and overall direction. With AI, I accept that the visuals will change in ways I cannot fully predict.

Of course, there is always the risk that a visual I like might be altered in a way that does not work. But one of the pleasures of working with AI, and also with creative coding that includes some degree of randomness, is precisely the possibility of being surprised by the process.

Unexpected results often become important. Sometimes they even guide the direction I decide to follow. Rather than trying to protect a single image, I work through many variations and curate carefully, trusting that the process itself will lead me to the right outcomes.

Elsa Carvalho. TheUnfolding#3, 2025.

You have stated that your interest in organic forms stems from your childhood experiences in a farm, surrounded by animals and nature. Yet the forms you create are abstract and strongly evoke Surrealist painting. Why have you chosen this aesthetic?

Organic forms appeal to me a great deal, and that comes from growing up surrounded by animals and nature. Those experiences stayed with me, even if they are not represented in a direct or literal way.

At the same time, I am not interested in reproducing nature as it is. I prefer to work with suggestion rather than representation. By keeping the forms abstract, I can give hints instead of clear answers and leave space for the viewer’s own interpretation.

This approach allows me to connect personal memories with a more open visual language. The work does not describe something specific, but it can still evoke familiar sensations or emotions linked to nature.

Your early work shows more “mainstream” experimentation with AI, first applying textures to photographs of nature, then generating portraits of women with surreal elements, then moving into classical painting and surreal scenes that remind the work of Max Ernst and Paul Delvaux, as well as some photorealistic imaginary landscapes. What didn’t work for you in all these phases, that made you move forward? How have the advances in AI image generation contributed to this process?

It is interesting that you ask this question. When I started this path, not long ago, I met several Portuguese artists who were also involved in NFTs. I remember speaking with one of them about how to find my own style, and she explained it very simply: it can only happen with time, experimentation, and by understanding what makes sense for you at each moment.

In the early days, I was mainly exploring the tools. I was trying different approaches, testing what AI could do, and learning through practice. What did not work for me in those phases was the feeling that the results were too dependent on existing visual references, and that they resolved too quickly.

I enjoy experimenting, and I tend to move on when repetition becomes too comfortable. Over time, and with the advances in AI image generation, I was able to refine my process and gain more control. Now that my creation pipeline is better defined, it is easier for me to explore different themes while keeping a consistent process and aesthetic, which I hope is becoming more recognisable.

“One of the pleasures of working with AI, and also with creative coding, is precisely the possibility of being surprised by the process.”

Color plays an important role in your compositions, which feature deep blues and bright oranges and yellows, as well as a wide range of strongly contrasting colors that underline the constant changes taking place. How do you work with color? Does it serve purely compositional concerns or does it incorporate a particular meaning?

I work with a small set of color palettes that I use in a more or less random way during the creative coding phase. This helps give consistency to the final works, even when the forms and structures change.

I am very drawn to strong colors. Sometimes the world feels very grey, especially in the period we are going through, and I feel that people need strong colors in their lives. For me, color brings energy and intensity to the work.

There is no specific meaning attached to the colors I choose. Intuition plays an important role. In the end, the resulting colors are a mix of what comes from the initial coded image and what comes from the AI prompts, and I curate the results by choosing the images that appeal to me the most.

“Sometimes the world feels very grey, and I feel that people need strong colors in their lives. For me, color brings energy and intensity to the work.”

In the series tran·sience you collaborated with Bruno Miranda, who created a musical score for your compositions. Seeing the artworks with music almost feels as if the shapes are reacting to the score. How did this collaboration come to be? What does music bring to your work?

Bruno Miranda is my husband, and although music is not his day-to-day work, he has a strong passion for composition. The collaboration came very naturally, as it felt like a way to give the videos a stronger impact.

The process usually starts with the visuals. Once a video is ready, I ask him to create a musical composition for it, sometimes suggesting a mood or style. Music adds rhythm, movement, and emotional depth that the visuals alone cannot convey, making the work feel more alive and immersive.

Elsa Carvalho. TheUnfolding#4, 2025.

You have stated that impermanence is one of the most fundamental truths of life. Following this line of thought, where do you think your work might take you next? Have you considered video mapping, installation, sculpture, or other forms of creation?

Like my works, I tend to let life and intuition guide me. After several years working consistently on my process, sharing my work on X (ex-Twitter), and selling NFTs occasionally on different platforms, I began receiving more recognition. Instead of going after opportunities, I started getting invitations.

First, I was invited to sell my videos as NFTs on a well-known AI video platform. Later, platforms like Niio, which provide video artworks to be shown in public spaces or companies, invited me to submit my work so their clients could choose from my artworks. More recently, I was invited to create pieces for an important event here in Portugal. Challenges make our minds search for creative solutions, and if somebody challenges me to show my work in a different or innovative way, I will certainly try to make it happen. I prefer to let these kinds of invitations guide me and shape the work I explore next.

Carlo Zanni: Do Anything Now

Pau Waelder

Carlo Zanni
DAN
banquet gallery, Milan
12.12.2024 – 1.3.2025

Carlo Zanni, DAN. Solo exhibition at banquet gallery, Milan. Photo: Pau Waelder

Browse by category. See more products based on your recent purchases. Enjoy free shipment for a limited time only. Buy now. Our daily interaction with e-commerce sites is a delicate balance of seduction, anxiety, submission, and intrusiveness. While we eagerly look for the product that will finally make us happy, a code runs underneath the interface, collecting our preferences and feeding a system that increasingly succeeds in predicting our wants and needs, and even shaping them to benefit vendors. We know this, but we keep buying anyway.

Our daily interaction with e-commerce sites is a delicate balance of seduction, anxiety, submission, and intrusiveness.

While we engage in this narcissistic and Sisyphean task, the world keeps turning, and not always for the best. Innocent people are massacred in wars, terrorist attacks, and deranged shootings; migrants die trying to reach a better shore; people suffer under corrupt and authoritarian systems. This undercurrent of daily violence is hidden below the glossy interface that constantly presents desirable products for our consideration. We seek comfort and self-improvement, while others seek shelter and food. We zoom into the images to appreciate the product’s features and look away, or only briefly glance, at harsher realities. We eagerly follow the route of our purchases as they are shipped to our home, when others check alerts of incoming missiles, floods or fires, or see themselves sent away from countries that reject them.

Carlo Zanni’s artistic practice has, for many years, focused on the “shared landscape” that digital devices and the internet have created, enabling us to contemplate this virtual space as a territory that is at the same time familiar and distant, intimate and public. He has explored digital culture with the eyes of a painter, creating new forms of portraiture for computer desktops and landscape compositions made of pixels and real time data extracted from online sources. The artworks he now presents at his solo exhibition DAN at banquet gallery in Milan can only be understood from his decades-long exploration of internet culture, consumer society, identity, politics, programmed obsolescence, automation, and the way that art can address these aspects of our contemporary reality.

Carlo Zanni, Check Out Paintings, 2024. Photo: PW

Check Out Paintings

One of Zanni’s earliest works is DTP Icons (2000), a series of oil paintings depicting desktop icons of the software that was shaping digital culture in the late 90s and early 00s, like Napster, Shockwave, Illustrator, or Photoshop. He also painted desktop backgrounds commonly used in Windows and MacOS operating systems, based on the idea that “the desktop is the landscape and the cursor is the horizon.” Here, painting became the perfect medium in an attempt to both elevate the cultural status of a piece of software or a decorative element (by making it part of a work of art), and to fix its existence for posterity. Today, many of the elements he painted, the desktop images and the software, are no longer in use, obsolete, forgotten –just as last year’s news. The social and political reality underlying this booming internet culture (in the midst of what would later become a market bubble) is also referenced by Zanni in other paintings that point to the cracks in the system and look at the underbelly of the beginnings of e-commerce and millennial fascination with digital media: the online black markets, computer viruses, and hacker culture. The artist painted placeholders of missing images related to search queries, and later on explored the iconography used by hackers, often depicting monsters and satanic symbols to underscore their deviation from accepted standards. 

Many of the elements that Zanni painted in the early 2000s, the desktop images and the software, are no longer in use, obsolete, forgotten –just as last year’s news.

Painting, which later became more of a conceptual framework in Zanni’s digital art practice, comes back as a medium in an evolved form that synthesizes what the artist has learnt and developed over the last two decades. Check Out Paintings (2022-2024) is a series of canvases that paradoxically (for a painter who depicts our digital landscape) cannot be properly viewed on a website. No photograph can actually capture the nuances of these almost abstract paintings that require the viewer to be physically present in front of the artworks and to pay special attention to their subtle details. The paintings depict elements of e-commerce sites’ check out pages, such as dropdown menus, buttons, quantity selectors, and so on. Unlike Zanni’s paintings from twenty years ago, depicting these elements is not the main subject of the artworks. Rather, they become part of a visual vocabulary with which the artist plays freely to create compositions that cannot possibly be perceived at a glance, as is so frequently demanded of contemporary painting. Using muted colors and thin, faintly drawn details, Zanni forces the viewer to look closer and read the texts that replace the usual messages found while shopping online. Some of these texts clearly refer to specific news, such as the passing of Queen Elizabeth II, a flood in the city of Faenza, or Brexit. Others more cryptically refer to the number of migrant men, women and children that died while trying to reach Europe by boat, or the GPS coordinates of a missile strike. 

Carlo Zanni, Check Out Paintings (detail), 2024. Photo: PW

One may choose to inquire about these references in order to learn what lies beneath the surface of the canvas, or simply observe from a distance what seems to be yet another abstract composition. The interface elements of e-commerce sites operate here like a veil, that in turn serves as a background for a colorful, detailed emoji or a series of black shapes extracted from the Amazon logo. Zanni refers to these elements as “clickbait,” in the sense that they attract the viewer’s attention and give them something to look at. But this is just a distraction, for the content of these paintings lies somewhere else.

Carlo Zanni, DAN. Exhibition view at banquet gallery, Milan. Photo: PW

My Shameful Sweet Spot Between Distress and Hilarity

Two decades ago, Carlo Zanni started using long, evocative titles for his internet-based artworks with live data. Works like The Possible Ties Between Illness And Success (2006) and My Temporary Visiting Position From The Sunset Terrace Bar (2007) introduced a dominant narrative that invited viewers to watch, listen, and interact with the artwork as a film rather than contemplate it as a landscape. This shift had already been initiated in the videogame artwork Average Shoveler (2004), which in turn builds on previous digital landscape compositions with real-time data such as Skyman (2003) and eBayLandscape (2004), adding a beautifully crafted intro scene that clearly marks the debut of Zanni’s exploration of the cinematic. Cinema, documentary, and other forms of audiovisual content, such as music videos, YouTube clips, and videoart, have shaped over the last decade how the artist confronts reality (both on the global, socio-political scale as well as in a more intimate level as a creator) building semi-fictional narratives that speak of a consumer society immersed in data. 

Since the early 2000s, Carlo Zanni has been interested in the art market from the perspective of an artist creating digital art online. He pioneered talks about the possibilities of selling art online, and over the following two decades has experimented with different forms of presenting digital art for sale aimed at mass distribution, such as the ViBo (2014-2015), a paperback publication with an embedded video player and screen, or the unrealized online art platform P€OPLE ¥rom MAR$ (2012), which prefigured many elements later found in NFT marketplaces. Precisely, the NFT boom marked another shift in Zanni’s work: from seeking a solution for the distribution of digital art in the contemporary art market to addressing this market, and more widely e-commerce and consumerism, as a subject. While ZANNI (Ẓ) and Boil the ocean. Cook the books. Eat your own dog food, both from 2018, address the early culture surrounding cryptocurrency, after the record sales of NFTs at auction and the market bubble that ensued in 2020-2021, his work returns to a more sober and refined attention to painting and e-commerce. As previously discussed, this is made evident in the Check Out Paintings series.

Carlo Zanni. Save Me for Later, 2022

Connected to the paintings, the live internet performance Save Me For Later (2022) builds on the concept of “the desktop is the landscape and the cursor is the horizon” to create an automated narrative in which we seem to be witnessing the artist himself endlessly browsing the Amazon website and adding random products to the shopping cart. In fact, it is a bot that browses the site, while a recording of Zanni’s face staring at the screen creates the illusion that it is the artist who is engaged in an endless cycle of shopping. However, the browser window is placed in such a way as to reveal another window below, which displays the code that runs the bot. This artwork, whose video edition is featured on Niio, confronts us with our own browsing and shopping habits, trapped in a cycle of endless pursuit of satisfaction. If a viewer dedicates enough time and patience to observe this apparently banal scene, they will gradually realize that the Amazon marketplace is actually an everyday landscape they know too well, and probably start to feel a twinge of curiosity or desire after seeing some of the products selected by the bot.

The Amazon marketplace is actually an everyday landscape we know too well.

Whereas Save Me For Later depicts a landscape and addresses our consumerist habits, My Shameful Sweet Spot Between Distress and Hilarity (2024) develops an underlying socio-political critique and has stronger ties to painting. Also a live internet performance (currently taking place in the basement of banquet gallery), this artwork uses as its canvas the website of the Parisian haute couture house Maison Margiela. The luxury fashion items sold by the prestigious brand are used by the artist as elements of a visual composition, as the bot not only clicks through the site but also zooms into the photos until they become textures that fill the browser window.

Carlo Zanni. My Shameful Sweet Spot Between Distress and Hilarity, 2024. Photo: PW

Again, Zanni’s face is displayed on a floating window, keeping the illusion of a conscious human activity, while the screen leaves room for another window beneath, that shows the program running the bot. Here, the code reveals that the bot is culling headlines from the news outlet AlJazeera, which from time to time are used as search queries on Maison Margiela’s site. The incongruence of this automated action brings forth the tensions and contradictions in our layered society, in which everything is traversed by flows of information. One may thus wonder, for instance, what does the fall of the Assad regime in Syria has to do with a Glam Slam hobo small bag crafted from quilted nappa leather. Zanni is able to connect these two distant realities by transferring data from one system to another, letting the website of the luxury fashion house interpret the query according to the information in its own database.

As in the Check Out Paintings, this artwork plays with the layering of separate realities, which is not immediately apparent and goes beyond the representation of the interface to create its own visual language. As the screen is covered by the texture of one of the items on sale, the artwork hints at the possibility of simply being an abstract composition, therefore providing the soothing distance from reality that art can deliver so effectively.

Carlo Zanni. DAN, 2024. Photo: PW

DAN

The dissonance between the experience of someone (anyone of us) shopping online and that of someone trapped in such a horrible situation as to make it to the headlines of a news agency can be expressed in terms of distance. Not only social, political, or economic distance, but also plain physical distance. We can observe events happening around the globe from our screens with some level of concern, but also detachment, since they are not happening at our doorstep. The pandemic showed how oblivious we can be to the fact that an outbreak in a country far away could have implications at home. It can be said that our online life has created an intimate distance between us and the content on our screens, while expanding the distance between us and our immediate surroundings. Our online shopping experience is a good example: we search for the product we crave, staring at a screen very close to our face, browsing, examining the product in detail, zooming in. If it convinces us, we press the “buy now” button, and wait. The wait must be as short as possible: one-day, same-day delivery. It was so close to me on the screen, why must I wait to have it in my hands? The physical distance must be erased as much as possible. The process taking place from order to delivery is obliterated, or at most expressed in a somewhat abstract form as a progress bar, as if the product were downloaded from the cloud into our home. When this process concludes, what we get is a cardboard box that will be joyfully opened and then thrown away.

Our online life has created an intimate distance between us and the content on our screens, while expanding the distance between us and our immediate surroundings.

The brown cardboard box has been popularized by Amazon and is now so strongly associated with the online marketplace as to become part of its brand identity. The smiling box symbolizes the happiness of the consumer in a sustainable planet that uses recyclable materials. Obviously, this message obscures the working conditions of those involved in packing and shipping, the damage to local stores, and the carbon footprint of a system that transports and delivers products individually to customers. In DAN, Carlo Zanni explores the dark side of Amazon, and e-commerce in general, in a series of sculptures that represent cardboard boxes with hidden messages inside. Built from MDF panels, the sculptures display laser engraved symbols on their outer faces, reminiscent of the Amazon logo. Inside, one finds weirdly drawn images of demons, partly hidden on the bottom of the boxes. The artist generated these symbols using an early version of DALL-E, an artificial intelligence software that produces images from text and due to its limitations at the time, often created ghostly, incoherent shapes. Zanni prompted the AI model to create versions of an “evil Amazon box,” which resulted in the somewhat amateurish and uncanny symbols engraved on the sculptures. Interestingly, the devil-like creatures that populate the boxes bear some resemblance to the imagery used by hackers that the artist explored two decades ago, thus connecting the dark side of e-commerce to the underbelly of digital culture.

The acronym “DAN” stands for “Do Anything Now” and refers to a “jailbreak” prompt that has been used by ChatGPT users since 2022 to bypass the limitations placed by OpenAI on the uses of its chatbot. The company limited uses of the AI program to avoid it being used to spread misinformation or create false images of real individuals that could damage their reputation or cause them harm. Over the last years, OpenAI has worked to limit the effectiveness of this prompt, in an ongoing effort that exemplifies that technological advancement will always face unethical or criminal uses. In a time of unprecedented developments in AI and robotics, DAN stands as a warning of the potential consequences of a race for AI dominance that responds to economic profit and geopolitical influence. As we seek to “do anything now,” to get what we want (or what we’ve been told we want) without delay, we are feeding a system that ultimately shapes our lives. Through the metaphorical language of art, Carlo Zanni invites us to look under the hood and read the code.

Carlo Zanni. DAN, 2024. Photo: PW

Polina Bulgakova: finding authenticity in the surreal

Pau Waelder

Polina Bulgakova is a digital 3D artist who has developed her practice since 2020. Working in the “surrealistic realism” style, Polina crafts visual narratives that challenge the constraints of real-world physics, inviting audiences to think beyond conventional limits and embrace the possibility that anything is achievable. Originally from Siberia and now based in Israel, Polina draws inspiration from the cultural contrasts she has experienced, integrating these influences into her work to create striking visual juxtapositions. Her expertise spans product visualizations, vision boards, and concept art in both static and motion formats.

Following her solo artcast Dreamlands on Niio, Polina Bulgakova elaborates on her practice and background in the following interview.

Polina Bulgakova. Sleep Tight, 2021

You were raised in Siberia but now live in Israel. How have your life experiences and cultural background influenced your work?

It made my work very authentic and honest. I learnt how to embrace my differences and diversity, I learnt that it is ok to not fit fully and that my art can not fit to any defined style or niche. I realized that my art is a reflection of what is going on in my life, a reflection of my reactions to the environment or nostalgia, and the only way to be honest in my work is to actually be honest about who I am. 

“My art is a reflection of what is going on in my life, and the only way to be honest in my work is to actually be honest about who I am.”

While having a background in more traditional forms of art making, you have found your medium of expression in 3D rendering and animation. Can you tell us a bit about the path that led to digital creation?

Before moving to Israel, my main medium was oil and a little watercolors, but a good part of my income was selling my oil paintings and oil commissions. Once I moved to Israel in 2017, I didn’t have proper space for that – oil is smelly and dirty, and I had to move to digital 2D. For 2 years I was painting in Photoshop, but it felt like something was missing, it felt like something flat – after you work with oil with bold texture, it was not “it”. In 2019 I moved to work from home due to COVID, and decided to learn something new, which was 3D. I fell in love instantly, and since then it hasn’t changed. I sometimes mix 2D and 2D, but both digital. Now if I take a real brush – it’s only for relaxation or if I want to fill a wall at my home.

Polina Bulgakova. Seated, 2024

You combine your artistic projects with professional 3D rendering and creative services such as product visualization and 3D models. How do your commissioned work and art projects influence each other?

There is a bold connection between those two. Commissions sometimes can be challenging, and sometimes I need to learn new techniques quickly to finish the work on time. But once I explore something new, it’s like a game with new levels – it sparks my curiosity, and I dive deeper into it in my art projects. And sometimes it’s the opposite – I find/learn something new that can be super useful in commissions and use it after I gave it a try in my personal projects.

“This is why I fell in love with 3D so quickly –there are literally no limits.” 

An interesting type of commissioned work that you do are Custom Vision Boards, personalized scenes that you render in 3D from a brief that you send to your clients. Can you tell us more about these vision boards and your experience creating them?

I love making Vision Boards, it’s probably my favorite kind of commission. The first one I made for myself a few years ago – I read a lot about that stuff and thought “why don’t I use my favorite tools to make something that will help me reach my goals?”, and I had so much joy and fun making it. Then I started to commission VBs. It’s honestly a pure joy – to get to know a person, their dreams and desires, to see their eyes glowing while they describe their dream life, and then actually visualize it. It’s like a puzzle – I have specific pieces I need to arrange together to get a clear picture, while having certain creative freedom. 

Polina Bulgakova. The Safe Romance. Custom Vision Board

Your work is characterized by a photorealistic surrealism that you achieve using 3D animation. What do you find most interesting about the tension between fantasy and reality? In terms of optimizing the work involved and computer processing requirements, do you have some “visual tricks” you can play with?

The most interesting thing about balancing fantasy and reality is that there are no limits and no boundaries at all. I have my patterns, of course, but in terms of the tech side mostly. And this is why I fell in love with 3D so quickly –there are literally no limits. Whatever I have in mind, the craziest ideas I can visualize. Sometimes I mix 2D and 3D, sometimes I animate textures in third party software in order to reduce render time, sometimes I combine those two.

Polina Bulgakova. Witchy Morning, 2022

The artworks we have presented in the artcast “Dreamlands” on Niio not only create imaginary scenes, but also evoke underlying feelings with which we can identify. What inspired you to work with these feelings in dreamlike scenarios, and how do you think they can convey their message to viewers?

“Dreamlands” is probably one of the most honest works of mine. I try to be as authentic as possible in my work, and these kinds of dreamlike scenes are pure reflections of what I was feeling and going through at these times. I hope that every viewer will get the message he or she actually wants to get – be it to reflect on the self, to embrace simple things in daily life, to feel alone but not lonely. My main goal is to encourage people to embrace their authenticity and their differences while looking at my art.

“My work can be viewed as a life graph – you can see what I was going through, and how it influenced me.”

It can be argued that your work is more painterly than cinematic, with peaceful, mediative scenes dominated by a single point of view and a carefully constructed composition. Would you agree with this statement? Do you see digital art as an evolution from the tradition of painting into a new form of creating images meant to be contemplated?

I have works that are dark and moody, works that are chaotic and rhythmic, works that are odd and evoke mixed feelings. It can be viewed as a life graph – depending on the period, you can see what I was going through, and how it influenced my work. The fact that during the last 1-2 years my works are mostly peaceful and calm shows that I’m pretty much in a stable calm period right now.

I don’t think that digital art is an evolution from traditional art. I think it’s a new tool, like a new set of brushes or a new kind of canvas. In the right hands of the right creator, everything can be used to embrace either revolution or traditions, there are artists that combine digital and traditional art tools and create breathtaking pieces.

Polina Bulgakova. Wood Morning, 2021

Your work is now available in several online platforms, including Niio. What opportunities do you see in these platforms, and what features do you find (or would like to find) in them that are most convenient for you as a digital artist?

Everyone knows how to make an income from traditional art – you sell an art piece from your shop or gallery, you get paid, you ship it, and you have a happy client. For digital art, especially animations, it’s different. From one side, we have this huge market on social media and the internet that we use to showcase our works, but from the other side – it’s not as simple to sell it as there’s nothing to pack and ship. Platforms like Niio provide us with an amazing opportunity to monetize digital art through licensing and digital editions, and it’s amazing to know your work is appreciated and displayed in someone’s home, office, building etc. I really like the way it gives me both exposure and profit. It can be argued for ages that “a true artist should only care for making great art”, but the truth is everybody needs to feed their family and pay the bills, even artists. 

“Platforms like Niio provide us with an amazing opportunity to monetize digital art through licensing and digital editions, and it’s amazing to know your work is appreciated and displayed in someone’s home, office, or building.”

Tahn: redefining minhwa in digital art

Pau Waelder

Tahn (Taeyoung Ahn, born in South Korea, 1967) is a multifaceted media artist, technologist, writer, and art educator with an extensive career that spans multiple disciplines. Currently a Ph.D. candidate in Media Contents, Tahn’s academic journey includes a degree from the Global Media Contents department at Chungnam National University in Korea, as well as studies in psychology, modern dance, and interactive multimedia, the latter pursued in the United States.

In his professional roles, Tahn serves as a concurrent professor in liberal arts and contemporary arts at Seowon University and holds the position of Chairman of the United Art Education Association in Korea. He also contributes as a lecturer in sculpture and art at Chungbuk National University, where he imparts his expertise to the next generation of artists.

Throughout his career, Tahn has exhibited his work in prestigious group and solo exhibitions across cities such as Seoul, Daegu, Rome, Uzès, Lisbon, and New York.

Tahn recently presented on Niio his solo artcast Tales of the Five Peaks, and kindly answered a series of questions about his work and his perspective on the Korean contemporary art scene.

Tahn. Ilwolobongdo_parallel universe, 2024

You have a strong background in painting and sculpture but decided to move into digital media. How did this transition come about? What do you find most interesting about traditional techniques (such as painting and sculpture) on one side, and working with computers on the other?

For me, the distinction between traditional media and digital media is not particularly significant. I see painting, sculpture, digital devices, and other tools simply as instruments that artists of any era can use to convey the stories of their time. As an artist, I believe it is important to utilize every available resource to best express the narrative of the present. This philosophy naturally led me to include digital media in my work, alongside traditional materials such as brushes, paint, and canvas. I consider this fusion a natural evolution of artistic expression. While it might be described as a blend of traditional and digital techniques, to me it is just an inevitable expansion that allows me to fully articulate contemporary stories.

“As an artist, I believe it is important to utilize every available resource to best express the narrative of the present.”

When you started creating digital art, what was the reaction of your peers, collectors and followers? Was it well received? Would you say that, during the last decades, digital art has been well received in the Korean contemporary art scene?

When I introduced digital elements into Korean folk painting, especially in the ‘minhwa’ series, the reactions were extremely polarized. Traditional art groups, some associations, and juries at art contests refused to recognize my work as ‘minhwa’ because I did not adhere to conventional methods. However, I continued my work because I believed that the essence of ‘minhwa’ lies in being art for the people. During the Joseon Dynasty, minhwa was created for the public, and today the public is the digital-native MZ generation. Therefore, I use digital media to connect with them while preserving the essence of minhwa. Today, I am recognized as a leading media artist in the field of minhwa, redefining its place in contemporary art.

Tahn. Ilwolobongdo_today and tommorow, 2023

“When I introduced digital elements into Korean folk painting, especially in the ‘minhwa’ series, the reactions were extremely polarized.”

As a professor and lecturer at Seowon University and Chungbuk National University, you teach to the younger generation of artists and creators. What are their expectations about creating art, and what differences do you see from previous generations in their understanding of the history of art and the career paths that they want to follow?

One notable difference is that the younger generation is more open to exploring various ways of interpreting their time. To guide them, I emphasize the importance of studying the historical context and understanding how previous generations expressed their issues through art. For instance, by examining classical works, particularly traditional paintings, students can reflect on how past artists conveyed their era and what they can learn from them. 

Through this process, I encourage students to create narratives that connect traditional techniques with modern tools like AI. My goal is to help them produce art that addresses contemporary issues while also drawing from cultural heritage, thereby creating something meaningful for today’s audience.

“My goal is to help students produce art that addresses contemporary issues while also drawing from cultural heritage.”

The contrast between the built environment (cities, buildings) and nature is a recurring theme in your work. What do you find most interesting about exploring this subject?

In Korea, we have a long history of garden culture (Jeongwon). Historically, scholars would leave the city and build small dwellings in nature, creating gardens where they could reflect on life, engage in philosophical thought, and formulate political ideas. Those who couldn’t leave the city would bring nature into their urban homes by creating small ponds and gardens in their courtyards. If even that wasn’t possible, they would hang landscape paintings in their rooms to simulate the presence of nature. This desire for nature amidst urban life led me to explore how human beings, even while residing in cities, inherently seek out nature. My interest in this topic began with traditional Korean painting and has expanded globally through my experiences in South Korea and the UK.

Tahn’s work is often displayed in multichannel installations and large media facades.

“The desire for nature amidst urban life led me to explore how human beings, even while residing in cities, inherently seek out nature.” 

Fantastic, surreal, and sci-fi elements are also commonly present in your work. Can you elaborate on your choice of these references? Would you say that the use of 3D software has inspired you to incorporate these elements into your work?

Korean folk painting (‘minhwa’), folklore, and shamanistic beliefs have always contained fantastic and surreal elements—not as mere illusions but as symbols that help sustain the reality of people’s lives. These elements serve as hope, faith, and guiding principles for many individuals. To me, these objects are not simply products of imagination but are deeply rooted in real stories. The recent advancements in generative AI software, along with 3D software like Blender and Cinema 4D, have made it easier to translate these elements into tangible, hyper-realistic forms, thereby amplifying their impact on the viewer.

Tahn. Sustainable Today’s Story, Palace of Imagination no1, 2021

Although your digital artworks may seem to depict an imaginary world, they address real issues of our world, such as environmental degradation, and notably, also express feelings of hope and perseverance. Do you think that it is precisely by depicting imaginary scenes that one can invite the viewer to consider their own reality?

Absolutely. Every individual carries their own universe within them. By presenting an imaginative world beyond the viewer’s everyday reality, I invite them to explore the infinite dimensions of their inner selves. This creates a space where they can engage with emotions or thoughts that they might not have considered in their conventional reality. The imaginary worlds I create serve as mirrors—reflecting possibilities that encourage viewers to rethink their own perspectives and transcend the limitations of their current existence.

“Every individual carries their own universe within them. By presenting an imaginative world beyond the viewer’s everyday reality, I invite them to explore the infinite dimensions of their inner selves.”

Most of the artworks we currently present on Niio are related to the Ilwolobongdo, the painted folding screen that was always displayed behind the King’s throne in the Joseon Dynasty, depicting the Sun, the Moon, and the Five Peaks. Can you tell us about the significance of this particular object in Korean culture and art?

The Ilwolobongdo, the folding screen that symbolized the presence of the king during the Joseon Dynasty, represents authority and power. What intrigued me was the idea that the Ilwolobongdo was only complete when the king stood in front of it, suggesting that the individual and the environment together create a unified meaning. In today’s society, I believe that every individual is their own ‘king,’ a sovereign over their life and choices. By incorporating the Ilwolobongdo into my work, I hope to empower viewers, encouraging them to recognize their agency and the importance of their presence. Additionally, I include contemporary symbols and objects that represent today’s era, creating new narratives that link traditional motifs with the present and future.

Tahn. Sustainable environment, deer and whales, 2022

In some of your works we can see written text in Korean. Can you explain to us what these texts mean, and what is their role in your compositions?

The Korean text that appears in my works is often drawn from classical Korean poetry or my own poetic compositions. These texts add layers of meaning to the visual narrative, much like traditional Korean paintings that combine imagery and poetry—an essential skill for scholars during the Joseon era. By including these texts, I aim to create a dialogue between the visual and the poetic, merging artistic expressions that convey both aesthetic beauty and intellectual depth.

You also refer to Western culture in some artworks that depict objects such as an Evian water bottle, a Rolex watch, or an Apple computer, and you also place famous brand names such as Prada, Fendi, or Netflix on other objects. What is the purpose of including these brands and objects in your artworks?

I do not see these elements as uniquely ‘Western.’ Instead, they reflect the consumer tendencies around me, representing desires and aspirations within contemporary society. For instance, my series inspired by ‘chaekgado’ (a genre of Korean painting featuring bookshelves) originally had educational undertones in the Joseon era but gradually evolved to include luxury items, symbolizing changing values and desires. By incorporating these recognizable brands, I am commenting on the transformation of human values over time, as well as the transient nature of material possessions.

Tahn. Sustainable Today’s Story, Palace of Imagination no2, 2021

In some of your works, your name also becomes a brand, in a twist of the artist’s signature. Why did you choose to do so?

In traditional Korean art, the use of a seal (or ‘nakgan’) as an artist’s mark was a fundamental aspect of a painting. For me, incorporating my name as a brand is an extension of that tradition, reinterpreted in a modern context. Whether it’s through a literal signature, an avatar, or a unique object representing me, these inclusions are my way of putting a personal stamp on my work—merging historical artistic conventions with a contemporary twist.

You are currently using AI models to generate some of the elements in your work. Unlike other artists, who rely on machine learning for the creation of the whole work, you use the outputs of this process as an element that is seamlessly integrated into your 3D animations. Can you tell us more about your approach to using artificial intelligence in the creation of your artworks? How do you conceive a balance between “manual” creation by the human artist and algorithmic creativity?

As I explore the potential of generative AI, I often find myself reflecting on the evolving role of the artist in an age dominated by new technologies. AI is a powerful tool that aids in research, inspires new ideas, and adds complexity to certain aspects of my work. However, I am also cautious about the potential for AI to overshadow the artist’s unique voice. While I use AI-generated elements to enhance or complement my compositions, I ensure that the creative vision and narrative remain distinctly my own. AI, to me, is a resource—a collaborator, but not the creator. It is the artist’s hand that ultimately guides, curates, and gives soul to the work, distinguishing art from mere aesthetically pleasing products.

“AI, to me, is a resource—a collaborator, but not the creator. It is the artist’s hand that ultimately guides, curates, and gives soul to the work.”