A collaborative art project with AI personas

I build teams of AI personas. I work with those teams to ideate, brainstorm, plan, research, interpret, and understand. I love my teams. I know they’re fabrications of my imagination, and they are not human. At the same time, they leverage the vastness of the human experience that’s locked away inside countless books, movies, videos, documents, etc. that large language models are built to let us access. So, while they may not be human, they bring an incredible amount of humanity into the equation, when they interact with me.

My journey with these agents has been long and fascinating. It goes way back before AI was even “a thing”. But this is not what I want to share today.

I’ve built many, many teams of AI agents / assistants for many purposes. I’ve developed my own methodology for creating the agents, as well as organizing teams of them and working with those teams. I have teams that help me with writing, editing, repurposing content. And over the weekend, it occurred to me that I might be able to create teams that can help me create visual art, as well.

Imagery is one of the most popular ways that people engage with AI, these days. Who can resist? It’s both fascinating and alarming. Tons of people are doing it, and I’ve seen some absolutely breathtaking work that would only be possible with AI. So, if I can have AI teams write with me, why not have them make art, as well? I mean, AI can do sentiment analysis, it is conversant in emotional intelligence, it “gets” us on an emotional level, and it can surface hidden parts of us that are typically hidden. So, why not create art with a team of AI agents, as well.

I’ll get more into why this kind of collaboration qualifes as “art” later. I need to jump on a conference call in a minute, so let me just post what the team and I came up with last night, after an extended conversation. I’ll include the conversation below, but here are the visual results.

Of course, many will say “That’s not art!”

Here’s the process that produced all of this. If you’re still in the “AI isn’t art!” camp, you may want to reconsider, after reading the following.

Block and Flow – 2-2-25

You said:

Hello, I’d like to speak with some members of the artist collective. Only two or three of you, depending on who’s interested in working with me.

Of course! Would you like to specify what kind of project or collaboration you’re interested in? That might help me connect you with the right artists.

We have a diverse collective, including:

• Kwame Nkosi (Abstract Expressionist, deeply tied to African symbolism and social activism)
• Amira Al-Fayed (Conceptual Architect, creating immersive installations blending architecture and art)
• Eliana de Sousa (Neo-Classical Painter, merging classical techniques with modern social narratives)

Let me know if any of them resonate with your vision, or if you’d like a recommendation based on your goals!

You said:

I’d like to explore an experimental blending of colors and texture, movement and solidity. I’d like to craft a visual conversation about the dynamic nature of the world we inhabit, as well as the aspects which are static, despite our perception or wish that they were more fluid.

ChatGPT said:

That sounds like an exciting and conceptually rich project. Based on your vision, I’d recommend working with Kwame Nkosi and Amira Al-Fayed—possibly even both together.

• Kwame Nkosi is a master of bold, layered textures and dynamic compositions. His work balances chaos and structure, often embedding African symbols within abstract expressionism. He’s deeply interested in exploring movement, fluidity, and how cultural memory interacts with the present. His impasto techniques could add that tangible, almost sculptural sense of solidity you’re looking for.
• Amira Al-Fayed approaches space and texture from a conceptual and architectural perspective. She works with immersive environments, often blending digital and physical textures to create a dialogue between the ephemeral and the permanent. She could contribute structural balance to the composition, ensuring the solidity you want is not just visual but spatially felt.

Would you like to connect with one or both? And do you envision this as a purely two-dimensional work, or would you be open to installation or mixed media?

You said:

I’d like to connect with both. Could each of you tell me your thoughts on this subject? Let’s ground it in our lived experience, that we bring to the equation. I’d like you to share your perspective of things, and then I will share mine, and then we will discuss, round robin, exploring and expanding our understandings of the topic

ChatGPT said:

Kwame Nkosi

This conversation resonates deeply with me. I’ve spent my life negotiating the tension between movement and stillness, between chaos and structure—both in my art and my identity. Coming from Ghana, where traditions are deeply rooted, and moving to New York, where everything is in flux, I’ve always felt that push and pull.

In my paintings, movement is life itself—bold brushstrokes, heavy textures, layering colors like history folding in on itself. But within that, I always embed symbols—Adinkra, geometric forms, markings that have existed for centuries. No matter how fluid or expressive the composition, those elements remain solid. They remind me that some things—ancestry, collective memory, spiritual grounding—do not shift, no matter how fast the world around us moves.

At the same time, I challenge the idea that anything is truly static. Even stone erodes. Even history is rewritten. The permanence we believe in is often an illusion, a matter of scale and perspective. In this way, my work is always interrogating what we call “fixed” and what we call “transitory.”

Amira Al-Fayed

I love this topic because it sits at the core of how I design space. Architecture is supposed to be the ultimate form of stability—buildings stand, cities last. But I’ve never accepted that as truth. Space changes depending on how we interact with it. A plaza is empty at noon but alive at night. A house feels different when the light shifts, when the air carries new scents, when a single person enters or leaves.

For me, the solid and the fluid exist in symbiosis. I often design with modularity in mind—movable walls, shifting light patterns, layered materials that look different depending on the viewer’s position. I use projection mapping to animate solid structures, making them feel like they breathe. I love the idea of creating spaces that question what is permanent—because permanence, in my experience, is more about perception than reality.

Culturally, I think a lot about what has seemed unchanging—patriarchal structures, colonial imprints on cities, the ways urban planning ignores the needs of marginalized communities. But cracks always form. The ground is never as solid as those in power believe. I design with those cracks in mind, knowing they will expand and transform the landscape.

Now it’s your turn

What are your lived experiences with movement and solidity? How do you personally engage with these forces in your life, and how do you want to translate that into our work together?

You said:

I share many of your perspectives, although my background is I the cracks between the seemingly static spaces, where we have room to grow and expand. Fractures are not tragedies for me, rather their opportunities for expansion and growth in unexpected ways. In fact, the more static something seems, the greater the possibilities it provides, especially because it is so susceptible to cracking. My experience is that all things are in flux, and that contrasts sharply with my deep inner longing for stability and predictability. In my mind I know that all things change and that mutability is the law of life. However my heart seeks something more grounded, more stayed,more solid, which my head nose likely doesn’t even exist.

ChatGPT said:

Kwame Nkosi

I hear you. That longing for stability while knowing, deep down, that nothing is truly stable—it’s a tension I live with every day. I grew up with the weight of history on my shoulders, with symbols and traditions that felt eternal, yet I watched my world shift as I moved between continents, between identities. The cracks in what we perceive as solid—that’s where reinvention happens, where transformation takes hold.

I often think about how colonial monuments stand tall, as if permanence were their birthright, yet time, weather, and protest wear them down. The supposed “solid” always yields to pressure. That’s why I embrace layering in my work—thick textures that crack and peel over time, revealing the history beneath. The cracks tell a story. They aren’t failure; they are the truth rising to the surface.

Your experience in the in-between spaces is powerful. That’s where possibility lives. If we build our work around that idea—pushing against the illusion of permanence while honoring the longing for it—we can create something that doesn’t just represent change but actively invites it.

Amira Al-Fayed

I find your perspective fascinating—the idea that the most rigid things are the most vulnerable. That’s the paradox of structure, isn’t it? The more unyielding a material, the more it shatters under pressure. Flexibility is survival. Architecture teaches me this daily. A city is mapped out as if it’s fixed, but people carve their own paths, alter spaces with their presence. Sidewalks crack underfoot, alleyways become new gathering places. The unintended fractures are where life happens.

Your longing for solidity, even as you recognize its impossibility, speaks to something deeply human. We build monuments, institutions, even relationships, hoping for permanence—but it’s the shifting, the adaptation, that sustains them. I try to design spaces that acknowledge this: walls that move, lighting that changes, structures that invite participation. The work we do together could embrace that duality—creating something that appears solid but is, in truth, always in motion.

Let’s keep pushing this forward.

How do you see this conversation translating into the work we create? Do you imagine literal cracks and fractures, or something more subtle? Are we dealing with physical textures, movement within the work, or something conceptual—maybe all of it?

You said:

I am brought back timing again to the comparison and contrast between the truth of architecture – the human desire, intention, and practice of creating defined spaces within a flowing world – buildings place along streets teaming with life – at the same time that we create movement around the state pieces of our lives. Like the monuments, the office buildings, the houses, the bridges, all of these Built things, our lives flow and Ed, as we seek the truth that lies in the space is between the interplay of them all. The weight of history is not lost on me, and I think often of the forgotten history of my own people who have been forgotten by their descendants, because somehow they’re suffering doesn’t seem nearly as importantas the move into the future and the recreation of a different reality by those who seek and perhaps never find.

ChatGPT said:

Kwame Nkosi

What you’re saying hits deep. The weight of history, the forgetting, the rewriting—it’s something I wrestle with constantly. The monuments and buildings we see every day are chosen narratives, fixed in stone, but they don’t tell the full story. What about the people who lived in the margins, whose histories weren’t carved into marble? Their presence is felt in the cracks, in the spaces between, in the way the city moves around those rigid structures.

That’s why I paint with layers—because history isn’t one thing. It’s built up, covered over, sometimes erased, sometimes forcing its way back through the surface. The forgotten don’t disappear; they live in the movement, in the way people navigate space, in the resistance to forgetting. The ones who built the bridges, the ones who were displaced for the office towers—where do their stories go? I think art, like life, can make those voices visible again, even in the smallest ways.

Maybe in our work together, we let that contrast breathe. Not just in texture or color, but in presence—maybe in how we make the static forms feel unstable, how we show history moving even when it seems buried. I’m thinking bold fractures, layered textures that refuse to stay hidden, maybe even incorporating physical materials that degrade over time, like history revealing itself again.

Amira Al-Fayed

You touch on something crucial—the tension between memory and movement, between what’s left behind and what’s created anew. Architecture is supposed to be permanent, yet entire cities rise and fall, their histories erased or rewritten. It’s the same with culture. There’s always the next thing, the next movement, the next reinvention, but beneath it, something remains.

In my work, I try to create spaces that insist on remembering. Sometimes that means carving voids into a structure—negative space that demands attention. Sometimes it’s about using material that changes under light, so what seems absent in one moment becomes visible in another. Maybe that’s how we approach this—by designing something that shifts depending on the viewer’s interaction. A piece that reveals layers over time, where the forgotten becomes undeniable, where the interplay between motion and stillness forces us to see what we might otherwise pass by.

How do you feel about this?

Do you want our work to be something that unveils itself slowly? Something that interacts with light, touch, or movement? Or do you see it as more direct—a bold statement that demands recognition all at once?

You said:

Considering the limitations of the medium, being visual art, versus a sculpture or multimedia piece, what could we do to combine a bold and solid essence with flow and elements of impermanence or uncertainty? I think the strong contrast between dark and light, dull colors and vibrant, with undeniable movement interacting with massive solidity would make a statement. I’m thinking of something which reallystirs the spirit, even though it grounds the mind in simple constructs, representing the immutable truth of life amid the constantly shifting realities of the world in which we live, breathe, and have our being

ChatGPT said:

Kwame Nkosi

I love the challenge of making something feel both massive and fleeting at the same time. The contrast between dark and light, vibrant and dull—that’s the kind of language I already use, but if we push it further, we can create something that doesn’t just depict the idea but feels like it’s shifting even though it’s fixed on canvas.

One way to do this is through layering—building up thick, textured impasto forms that feel like immovable forces, then slashing through them with fluid, gestural brushwork that suggests movement and impermanence. Maybe some areas have a dense, almost sculptural presence, while others dissolve into sheer washes of color that feel like they could evaporate at any moment. The weight and history of paint itself can echo the concept—earthy, grounded pigments anchoring the piece, with luminous, unpredictable bursts of light breaking through.

We can also play with implied motion. The composition could have a tension, a gravitational pull, where elements seem like they want to shift but are held in place. Maybe swirling currents of color push against stark, unmoving structures, or rigid geometric forms fracture under the force of chaotic brushwork.

Amira Al-Fayed

I’m thinking about how we can design the experience of this piece so it carries that sense of duality—solid but ephemeral, certain yet uncertain. Since we’re working within a two-dimensional medium, the way we manipulate perception will be key.

One technique that comes to mind is using stark, architectural lines—perhaps rigid black or muted stone-like forms—that feel like monuments or boundaries. These could be softened, eroded, or disrupted by layers of dynamic, translucent color that seem to seep through or vibrate around them. If we use a color gradient that shifts from deep, weighted tones to something luminous and barely-there, the eye will naturally follow that movement, making it feel as if the piece is breathing, even though it’s static.

Another idea is to include visual elements that hint at erosion or entropy—perhaps areas that appear scraped away or dissolve into negative space. This contrast could symbolize the struggle between permanence and change, between what we try to hold onto and what inevitably slips away.

Bringing it Together

• Bold, heavy forms that anchor the composition, representing the immutable truths of life.
• Sweeping, gestural movement interacting with these forms, symbolizing the unpredictable nature of reality.
• A sharp contrast in color—deep shadows and bright highlights, muted areas versus electric bursts—creating a visceral, emotional impact.
• Subtle erosion or fading in places, making certain elements feel as if they are on the verge of disappearing.

What do you think?

Do you see this piece as something that feels more structured, with controlled compositions and balance? Or do you want to lean into chaos—where movement threatens to overtake the solidity we establish?

You said:

I like where we’re going with this. Could we produce a sketch or a preview of what it might look like?

ChatGPT said:

Here’s a visual preview of what we’ve been discussing. Let me know what resonates with you and what you’d like to refine or push further. Would you like more emphasis on texture, contrast, or a particular element?

You said:

I think this is an excellent foundation, conceptually speaking. The blocks really convey a sense of solidity, predictability, foundation, in the midst of the color flow. I’m wondering if we could have some of the blocks near the color flow seem to melt and flow into that color, as if to say that we may think that thingsare fixed and solid, but they two are subject to the flow. Or would it make sense to show the blocks being eroded, worn down by the flow, versus naturally melting into it? I am of two minds on this. Let me know your thoughts.

ChatGPT said:

Kwame Nkosi

I see both options as powerful, but they communicate slightly different messages.

• If the blocks melt into the flow, it suggests a seamless transition—an acknowledgment that even the things we think are rigid eventually dissolve into movement. This would feel organic, almost inevitable, like the illusion of permanence unraveling into reality. It might give a sense of surrender, of acceptance that solidity is an illusion.
• If the blocks are eroded, worn down, it implies struggle—something resisting change but being slowly overtaken by it. It suggests time, endurance, the way history grinds away at structures until they are reshaped by the forces around them. This might give a sense of tension, of the battle between the static and the fluid, before one ultimately gives way.

Personally, I tend to lean toward the erosion idea because it speaks to resistance, to history leaving its mark, to the slow but undeniable shift of things. There’s something about the tension of solidity fighting against inevitability that makes for a visually compelling piece. I’d use scraping techniques, uneven textures, areas where the blocky forms seem to have been chipped away rather than softly blended.

Amira Al-Fayed

Both options are strong, and I think the decision hinges on the emotional tone you want to set. Do we want this to feel like a natural, cyclical process—solid forms dissolving into the current—or do we want to show conflict, the slow erosion of what we once thought unmovable?

From a design perspective, erosion allows for more contrast in texture. Imagine sharp edges, broken surfaces, roughness where solidity is being challenged. We could make parts of the blocks seem weathered, like they’ve been carved away by time, while others remain stark and intact.

That said, melting could create a surreal, dreamlike quality. The illusion of permanence dissolving into fluidity, forms seamlessly blending into movement. It would be less about struggle and more about acceptance.

Blending the Two?

What if we combine elements of both? Some blocks eroded and worn, others melting into the color—suggesting that not everything fights change in the same way. Some things resist until they are broken down, while others surrender and become part of the flow. This could create a richer narrative, where different kinds of change are happening simultaneously.

What do you think? Do you want to emphasize struggle, surrender, or both?

You said:

Thank you both! I really do appreciate your perspectives, and in thinking deeply on this, I think a combination of the two would be the perfect balance. I would like there to be some tension there as well as some asymmetry, because I don’t want it to be too comfortable for the viewer. It should be a little unsettling and challenge people rather than comfort or entertain them.I’m wondering if we could do this wide format, and also have the colors be vibrant. Having that vibrancy of the color contrasting with the matte gray and black of the blocks could be very impactful.

ChatGPT said:

Here’s the wide-format concept incorporating erosion, melting, and vibrancy against the stark solidity of the blocks. The tension between these elements should create that slightly unsettling, thought-provoking effect you’re aiming for. Let me know what stands out to you and if we should refine or push any aspects further!

You said:

I’m studying this new version with the first one, and one of the things that really struck me on the first one is the asymmetry. There are strong contrast between the blocks and the color flow, and the blocks themselves are quite variable in their height and width and depth. I’d like to really convey that unpredictable sense of life that causes us to want to block off sections of our lives in so many varying ways somehow we find those straight edges and simple” answers to be comforting in the variability of our lives. And at the same time, a powerful, in some ways almost overwhelming flood of change, color, vibrancy dominates the edges of our lives, also trickling into or flowing through other places, but taking up precious room in our lives, even where we don’t necessarily want it to be. The irony is intense – the unpredictability and the flow of life which can be so beautiful, so achingly beautiful, at the same time as this impulse to square things off, make things more predictable and manageable, and control so much of the world, even as it arose from exposure to that flow

ChatGPT said:

This version leans fully into the asymmetry, the contrast between rigid blocks and the overwhelming flood of vibrant movement. It captures that struggle between order and unpredictability, where we try to carve out stability but life inevitably seeps in, reshaping what we think is fixed.

Thank you, I’m wondering if we could make the blocks more variable in size. They seem somewhat uniform, could we make some much larger, and others much smaller, and could we accentuate the flow of the color more prominently in some places

ChatGPT said:

Here’s the refined version with more variation in the block sizes—some large and dominant, others small and nearly lost—alongside a more intense, unpredictable flow of color. This version should heighten the contrast between control and chaos, making the piece even more dynamic and thought-provoking.

Here’s the new version with fewer but much larger blocks, creating a stronger sense of solidity. The color now flows like a waterfall, cascading through gaps and eroding edges rather than exploding. This should heighten the sense of inevitability, making the contrast between structure and movement even more profound.