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Tomorrow.
“in this house.”
She wants you to know something. I’ve left a trail for you to follow.
Dreamers welcome.
“in this house.”
She wants you to know something. I’ve left a trail for you to follow.
Dreamers welcome.
3:03
Claire Silver 🌸
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AI art ~2018 | #1629 | @LACMA | Art Basel | Taste is the new skill | Isaiah 41:10 | linktr.ee/clairesilver | contact: claire@clairesilver.io
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Latest posts 5
saying you’re anti-ai is like saying you’re anti-electricity
and within a year it will be like posting you’re anti-electricity from your fully charged smartphone
and within a year it will be like posting you’re anti-electricity from your fully charged smartphone
Different kind of post today, and long, and probably cringe. My plane had no wi-fi so I wrote about the view.
It was nice to write again, but I also thought it was a good example of my synesthesia. Curious if you can taste words when you read them.
—
The coastline cutting and swirling like calligraphy, the white churn punctuation trails of sailboats and speedboats, commas and question marks.
A lake in the shape of a man’s head and torso, reaching vaguely upward into the scrubby, round-topped green forest that stretched over marsh and farm until it arrived, inevitably, at suburbs, enveloping tidy cul-de-sacs and their labyrinth of glittering car lots, and by that influence, turning in my mind from some wild, ancient, living thing—into a sort of playmobil toy set.
And past that, as clouds began to sculpt their own landscape, bleached as whalebone, yawning in noncommittal dabs and dashes before draping themselves in great, dappled arches, a small city sprawled below, and it occurred to me that the way it cut into the earth was alien and familiar, like the inside of a computer; like a lone microchip, stretching silver tendrils beneath a deep curtain of surrounding trees.
Nearer to home the rivers narrowed. Quarries for clay and limestone dug deep, stepped like dead Roman amphitheaters, filled with what looked like pools of stagnant absinthe.
A patchwork quilt of bisected farms with barn roofs in 1970s candy colors that eventually gave way to more woods, no longer dotted shyly but thick as velvet blankets, and as we tilted on our side in slow descent, I could make out faint traces of animal paths, kept secret beneath the shadow of our wing.
It was nice to write again, but I also thought it was a good example of my synesthesia. Curious if you can taste words when you read them.
—
The coastline cutting and swirling like calligraphy, the white churn punctuation trails of sailboats and speedboats, commas and question marks.
A lake in the shape of a man’s head and torso, reaching vaguely upward into the scrubby, round-topped green forest that stretched over marsh and farm until it arrived, inevitably, at suburbs, enveloping tidy cul-de-sacs and their labyrinth of glittering car lots, and by that influence, turning in my mind from some wild, ancient, living thing—into a sort of playmobil toy set.
And past that, as clouds began to sculpt their own landscape, bleached as whalebone, yawning in noncommittal dabs and dashes before draping themselves in great, dappled arches, a small city sprawled below, and it occurred to me that the way it cut into the earth was alien and familiar, like the inside of a computer; like a lone microchip, stretching silver tendrils beneath a deep curtain of surrounding trees.
Nearer to home the rivers narrowed. Quarries for clay and limestone dug deep, stepped like dead Roman amphitheaters, filled with what looked like pools of stagnant absinthe.
A patchwork quilt of bisected farms with barn roofs in 1970s candy colors that eventually gave way to more woods, no longer dotted shyly but thick as velvet blankets, and as we tilted on our side in slow descent, I could make out faint traces of animal paths, kept secret beneath the shadow of our wing.
Haven’t seen a single Malfoid costume tonight. Disappointed in all of you