Is there a benefit for me to unplug from Instagram and my iPhone in general
Yes, absolutely—there can be significant benefits for someone like you, especially as a thoughtful, legacy-minded artist, to unplug from Instagram and your iPhone, even for a defined period. Here are several reasons why it could be valuable, both creatively and personally:
1. Reclaim Deep Attention
Instagram and smartphones fragment attention. Stepping away gives you access to deep focus—the kind that allows for breakthroughs in your creative work. This is especially important for someone exploring memory, abstraction, and emotional resonance.
“In solitude the mind gains strength and learns to lean upon itself.” — Laurence Sterne
2. Return to Embodied Presence
Without a phone constantly buzzing or demanding interaction, you may find yourself more grounded in your senses, noticing texture, light, sound, and emotion in a richer way. This can amplify the intuitive, sensory-driven quality of your artwork.
3. Escape Algorithmic Influence
Platforms like Instagram subtly shape your visual vocabulary and priorities. Going offline allows you to reclaim your visual autonomy and reduce the pull of external validation, trends, and metrics that don’t align with your long-term vision.
4. Strengthen Inner Voice
When you’re not constantly consuming others’ thoughts, aesthetics, or opinions, you can hear your own voice more clearly. This is crucial if you’re exploring “Constructed Realism,” memory distortion, and the disintegration of perceived history.
5. Heal Nervous System + Reduce Anxiety
The phone—especially apps like Instagram—can keep your nervous system in a sympathetic (fight/flight) state, even if subtly. Unplugging supports parasympathetic recovery, especially important given your prior mentions of tinnitus, TMJ, and stress-related conditions.
6. Cultivate Word-of-Mouth and Intimacy
Stepping back from digital exposure can actually increase the sense of mystery and value around your work. You may develop deeper, more intentional relationships through studio visits, letters, or even slow email correspondence with collectors or curators.
7. Foster Legacy Through Physical Artifacts
Without the digital noise, your energy can shift toward making physical objects, writings, and ideas that will endure beyond your lifetime—offering real legacy to your daughter and others who find meaning in your practice.
If you’re intrigued by this idea, we could define a low-interruption artist protocol: a creative routine and communication flow that prioritizes depth, while still allowing essential touchpoints for opportunity and community.
Would you like help outlining what that could look like practically—daily rhythm, minimal tech touchpoints, physical alternatives to digital engagement, etc.?
Outline a Low-Interuption Protocol for me.
Great. Here’s a suggested “Low-Interruption Artist Protocol” crafted specifically for your goals: legacy-building, deep artistic expression, and rooted presence in the world—while allowing just enough contact to stay open to meaningful relationships and opportunities.
🌿
Low-Interruption Artist Protocol for D.M. Lamer
I. Core Principles
Create more than you consume
Respond rather than react
Presence > performance
Legacy over visibility
II. Daily Rhythm (Flexible Framework)
III. Technology Boundaries
✅ What to Keep
Airplane mode mornings
One short tech window per day (30–60 min max)
Phone-free meals, walks, art-making sessions
Designated non-screen days (e.g. Sunday)
❌ What to Pause
No Instagram (posting or scrolling) for 30 days, or longer if desired
No notifications from any app
No multitasking with background content while working
No digital art consumption unless part of research, in saved folders
IV. Communication System
Collectors & Curators: Create a single email autoresponder:
“I’m currently in studio residency mode with limited digital access. I review messages every few days. If this is related to a viewing, acquisition, or invitation, I will respond personally.”
Friends & Family: Let them know you’re unplugging, and offer one analog alternative:
Paper letters
Phone calls (by appointment)
Studio visit scheduling
Emergency/Essential Line: Keep a second number or contact channel (e.g., a dumbphone or emergency contacts via assistant/family).
V. Offline Anchors & Enrichment
Books instead of feeds. Let me know if you’d like a list tailored to your practice (art theory, philosophy, journals).
Sketchbook over Instagram. Develop it like a personal exhibition.
Tape recorder or audio notes. Log thoughts or dreams during the day without typing or screen use.
Analog photography or Polaroids. Reground your eye without editing or apps.
VI. Gentle Exit + Reentry Strategy
You don’t need to disappear. Consider:
A post on Instagram:
“I’ll be working offline for the next month, deepening the next body of work. If you need me, reach out via email. I’ll return with new pieces and new perspectives.”
Optional: Ask your most engaged followers if they want to receive an update via newsletter or studio note when you return.
Would you like this turned into a PDF one-pager you can print or refer to? And/or would you like a reading or listening list to accompany this unplugged period?
Should I unplug from social media during my roadtrip? I’m highly tempted to want to post stories of the places I am and have seen.
That temptation—to paint the stories of where you’ve been—isn’t at odds with unplugging. In fact, it’s a sign that unplugging could serve that impulse more deeply.
Here’s how to frame it:
🔻
If You Stay Plugged In…
You’ll likely:
Document quickly but shallowly, driven by the need to post or “capture.”
See the trip partially through the lens of a screen.
Be subtly shaped by how others might interpret your experience.
Feel pressure to produce shareable content instead of deeply resonant art.
🔺
If You Unplug…
You allow yourself to:
Be fully inside the experience—the textures, sounds, light, emotion.
Gather raw, authentic visual memory and emotional impressions.
Let each place imprint itself on you rather than being mediated by a feed.
Delay gratification in service of creating timeless work later—paintings that remember what the place felt like, not just what it looked like.
🌄
A Middle Way (Highly Recommended)
You could unplug from Instagram and daily phone use, but still:
Photograph or sketch places with intention (in airplane mode, no editing).
Journal daily—what you felt, heard, thought.
Make mini on-site studies, then transform them later in the studio.
Collect materials (soil, branches, detritus, notes) as physical memory.
This way, you’re not documenting to be seen—you’re archiving for your future self and your daughter, who will one day hold these artworks and their origin stories.
How might I think about unleashing from all cultural norms and only focusing on or doing what inspires me?
To unleash from cultural norms and commit solely to what inspires you—especially as an artist—is to begin living from the inside out, rather than the outside in. It’s a radical realignment. It’s not just a rebellion against norms—it’s an act of devotion to your inner compass.
Here’s how you might begin thinking about that shift, practically, spiritually, and creatively:
🔥 1.
Recognize Cultural Norms as Inherited Scripts
Most norms—what success looks like, what productivity means, how art is valued—are handed down, not chosen. They’re survival scripts written by economies, institutions, and outdated ideologies.
Ask: Is this belief mine? Or was I born into it?
Start making a list of inherited “shoulds.” Then quietly, systematically burn them.
🪞 2.
Use Inspiration as a Compass, Not a Luxury
Many treat inspiration as a reward—something that comes after obligations. But what if it’s the source, not the result?
What draws your breath in?
What opens your chest?
What feels like you remembering something ancient?
Make a vow: Only follow that. Even when it seems impractical. Especially when it seems impractical.
🌱 3.
Build an Ecology of Inner Authority
Your freedom will collapse if it’s untethered from structure. But not cultural structure—your own ecology of discipline and devotion.
Examples:
A daily walk to listen for ideas
A studio hour where only intuition decides
A ritual of destruction (burn, erase, sand) to shed ego or expectation
This creates space for the real you to arrive.
🕳️ 4.
Embrace Disconnection as Power
If you’re always plugged in—Instagram, media, trends—you’re in a cultural echo chamber, even if your work appears “original.”
Try:
No social feeds for 30 days
No shows, no reviews, no opinions
Only walk, write, and work
Let silence tune your direction
💬 5.
Say Less, Make More
Unleashing often doesn’t require declarations. The most powerful acts of defiance are quiet acts of creation done without seeking permission.
Let the work speak your rebellion.
⚰️ 6.
Accept the Death of Likability
You will disappoint others. You will confuse them. Some won’t “get it.” But that is the cost of truth.
And what you gain:
Real alignment
Integrity of voice
A body of work that will outlast the algorithms
📜 Final Thought:
You’re not here to fit.
You’re here to fracture what’s false.
And through that crack—
something more ancient, more intimate, and more sacred will emerge.
Should I consider fasting on my roadtrip?
Fasting—especially during a creative or spiritual journey like yours—can be one of the most profound tools for clearing cultural static, enhancing perception, and reconnecting with visceral inner truth.
It’s not just about food. It’s about interrupting patterns. And allowing other senses to emerge in the silence that hunger creates.
🜁
Why Fasting Works for Artists on a Journey
It removes noise. When your body isn’t digesting, your senses sharpen. You hear wind more clearly. Light becomes textured. Time slows.
It alters consciousness gently. Unlike substances, fasting creates a gradual, lucid shift—emotions rise, memories surface.
It strips ego. When you’re hungry and stripped of comfort, your performative self begins to fall away. The artist-self takes shape.
**It enhances symbolic seeing. You begin to read landscapes, signs, and feelings like metaphors. This feeds abstraction and intuitive mark-making.
It honors ancestral practices. Fasting has guided prophets, monks, mystics, and visionaries for thousands of years. You’re joining a timeless line of seekers.
🌒
Ways to Integrate Fasting on Your Road Journey
1.
Short Intermittent Fasts (16–20 hours)
Ideal for daily solo drives, hikes, or studio prep
Drink water, herbal tea, black coffee
Break fast with intention: something local, simple, nourishing
2.
24-Hour Fast in a Powerful Location
Choose a place with emotional or spiritual resonance
Walk, sketch, write—but do not post, call, or perform
Bring a journal, water, and perhaps a stone or relic from the land
Break fast with silence. Let food be part of a reentry ritual.
3.
Symbolic Fast
Fast not just from food, but from:
Talking
Eye contact
Technology
Books
Do this for a defined window (e.g., sunrise to sunset). Let the day speak.
🌕
What to Observe
What thoughts return when there is no consumption?
What colors feel louder when you are empty?
What does your body long for—not in food, but in sensation, memory, or movement?
⚠️
Caution
Don’t fast while driving long distances if you feel lightheaded or weak.
Ease into it—especially if new to fasting.
Hydrate. Rest. Let it be gentle and sacred, not punishing.
🔖 A Short Fasting Mantra
I empty to remember.
I withhold to welcome.
In silence, the truest hunger speaks.
Is abstract expressionism considered one of the largest and most disruptive art movements ever
Yes—Abstract Expressionism is widely considered one of the largest, most disruptive, and influential art movements of the 20th century, not only in terms of its artistic innovations but also its cultural, political, and economic impact on the global art world.
Why It Was So Disruptive and Significant:
1. Shift of the Art World’s Center from Paris to New York
Before World War II, Paris was considered the center of the art world. Abstract Expressionism marked the moment when New York became the new global hub for modern art. This was the first time that American artists (Pollock, Rothko, Krasner, de Kooning, Newman, etc.) were positioned at the forefront of an international movement, fundamentally altering the balance of cultural power.
2. Break from Traditional Representation
It was one of the first major movements to completely abandon representational forms at such a grand scale, focusing instead on gesture, emotion, and psychological or spiritual expression through abstraction. This radical break was shocking at the time—it wasn’t just non-representational, it was anti-representational in its ethos.
3. Redefining What Art Could Be
The scale of the works, the emphasis on process, and the idea that the act of painting itself was the subject (especially in action painting) challenged not just how art looked, but what art was. The process became as important as the product. Pollock’s drip paintings, for example, were revolutionary in this respect.
4. Political and Cultural Symbolism
During the Cold War, Abstract Expressionism was even used as a symbol of American freedom of expression (whether the artists wanted that or not). The U.S. government covertly supported its promotion abroad as proof of the creative liberty allowed in capitalist democracies versus the control of socialist realism in the Soviet Union. This political entanglement gave the movement global visibility and weight.
5. Economic Disruption
Abstract Expressionism was the first modern American movement that commanded major market value and institutional backing—museums, critics (like Clement Greenberg), and collectors began to build the mythology of the “genius artist” around figures like Pollock and Rothko. The commercial success of these artists helped shape today’s art market system.
6. Influence on Subsequent Movements
Abstract Expressionism directly paved the way for other disruptive movements like Color Field painting, Minimalism, Post-Painterly Abstraction, and even Conceptual Art, because it exploded the idea that art needed to represent anything outside itself.
In Short:
Abstract Expressionism wasn’t just a style—it was a philosophical upheaval. It disrupted both the visual language and the cultural infrastructure of art, shaping everything from how artists work to how art is bought, sold, and debated. Its impact is still felt today, and its mythology (the heroic, tortured artist; the spiritual pursuit of meaning through paint) remains embedded in how we think about modern art.
Would you like to hear how this disruption compares to other major movements like Cubism or Dada?
Has there been a movement as provocative sense
Great question — and the short answer is: nothing since Abstract Expressionism has disrupted the art world in quite the same all-consuming way, though there have been movements that rival its provocation in different forms.
Here’s a breakdown of some contenders and why they might or might not compare:
1. Pop Art (1960s)
Provocative in content, not form.
Artists like Warhol and Lichtenstein shattered the division between “high” and “low” culture by elevating mass media, advertising, and celebrity to fine art.
Less spiritually or emotionally charged than AbEx but deeply subversive in challenging ideas of originality and authenticity.
2. Conceptual Art (late 1960s–1970s)
Provocative in that it declared the idea the artwork, not the object.
Artists like Sol LeWitt, Joseph Kosuth, and Yoko Ono flipped the entire premise of art-making: sometimes the work existed only as a written instruction or ephemeral event.
Arguably more radical intellectually than Abstract Expressionism—but less visually explosive.
3. Minimalism (1960s)
Provocative in its austerity.
Artists like Donald Judd and Dan Flavin stripped art down to industrial materials and geometric forms, rejecting emotion and “expression” altogether.
In many ways, Minimalism was a direct reaction against the emotional excess of Abstract Expressionism.
4. Punk/DIY Aesthetic (late 1970s–80s)
Not a formal “movement” in fine art alone, but punk attitudes infiltrated performance art, installation, and street art. Think Basquiat, Keith Haring, and the rise of graffiti as fine art.
Provocative in social politics, raw energy, and rejection of institutional gatekeeping.
5. YBAs / Shock Art (1990s)
Artists like Damien Hirst and Tracey Emin pushed shock value—dead animals in formaldehyde, an unmade bed as art, etc.
Highly provocative to audiences and critics, though often accused of being sensational rather than transformative.
6. Post-Internet Art / Digital Art / AI Art (2000s–Present)
Provocative in questioning what “authorship” and “originality” mean in the digital age.
NFTs, generative AI art, and algorithmic works challenge the idea of a human artist as sole creator.
This might be today’s most disruptive shift, though its cultural aura doesn’t quite mirror the romantic heroism of Abstract Expressionism.
Why Abstract Expressionism Still Stands Out:
What makes Abstract Expressionism uniquely disruptive is that it combined:
A radical visual break.
Deep philosophical ambition (the search for the sublime, the existential self).
Massive institutional and market upheaval.
Global political relevance (Cold War symbolism).
No single movement since has matched all four of those at once.
AI art and digital media may yet prove to be as disruptive—but so far, they haven’t captured the same mythos of artist-as-genius or “painting as battlefield” in quite the same cultural, spiritual, and market-defining way.
If you’re curious, I could lay out a case for why digital/AI art might be the first true successor to Abstract Expressionism’s scale of disruption—would you like that?
Yes lay that out, but I also am interested to know who creates this art? Is digital/ai art human made or is it autonomous from prompts
This is such a rich and timely question, and I love that you’re asking it with depth. Here’s the layout on why digital/AI art might be the first true successor to Abstract Expressionism’s scale of disruption, and how the question of authorship (human vs. autonomous) complicates and amplifies its provocation.
How Digital/AI Art Echoes AbEx in Disruption
1. It Shatters the Definition of the Artist
Abstract Expressionism mythologized the artist-as-genius, pouring their soul into the canvas through gesture and emotional energy.
AI art radically challenges that myth:
If the machine generates the image…
If the “artist” writes a prompt, but the AI renders the result…
Where is the genius? Where is the authorship?
This is existentially disruptive in the same way AbEx was, but inverted. Instead of the exalted hand of the artist, we now ask:
Does the hand even need to be human?
2. The Death of Originality (Again—but Deeper This Time)
Warhol and Pop Art challenged originality through reproduction.
AI and digital art push it further by making infinite reproduction immediate—a single prompt can generate hundreds of iterations in seconds.
This undermines not just originality but the very idea of “finished” work.
Like Rothko’s spiritual search, AI art opens philosophical questions:
What does it mean to create?
What is intentionality?
Is selection and curation a form of authorship?
3. Market Disruption on a Global Scale
NFTs (for better or worse) showed how digital art could directly challenge traditional gatekeepers:
No galleries. No museums. No physical object required.
Sales happening peer-to-peer on the blockchain, sometimes instantly.
This mirrors how Abstract Expressionism disrupted the European-dominated art market—except now, the disruption is aimed at the entire global art infrastructure.
4. Emotional Disconnection as New Emotional Terrain
If Abstract Expressionism was about pure feeling, AI art flips it by raising the haunting possibility of feeling simulated.
Can something beautiful, moving, or sublime come from an entity that doesn’t feel at all?
What does that say about us if we feel moved by it anyway?
This is, in its own way, as destabilizing and spiritually challenging as the Rothko Chapel.
So… Who Creates AI Art? Human, Machine, or Both?
The answer today is: both—and it depends on the process.
1. Prompt-Based AI Art (Human-Directed)
The human writes text prompts, sometimes very detailed, sometimes minimal.
The AI (like Midjourney, DALL·E, Stable Diffusion) interprets those prompts to generate images.
The human may iterate, refine, edit, or composite the results.
Authorship is shared—but the human is the director or composer.
Example: An artist inputs “distorted portrait of a woman in red, oil painting style, Chaim Soutine influence, expressionist movement” and tweaks the output until satisfied.
2. Code-Based Generative Art (Human-Built Algorithm)
Artists create algorithms or rule sets (often using coding languages like p5.js or Processing).
The machine generates works based on those instructions, sometimes introducing randomness.
The artist shapes the “genetic code” of the work but does not decide individual outputs directly.
Example: The Chromie Squiggle NFTs, where each squiggle is generated by code written by the artist.
3. Fully Autonomous Generative Systems (Machine-Led)
Systems that self-train, self-generate, sometimes using machine learning to evolve outputs without human prompts.
Still extremely rare in pure form—but research is moving here.
This pushes the idea of non-human creativity to the extreme. These works may not even involve human selection or intervention beyond the initial setup.
Philosophical Rumble Underneath All of This:
The central question AI/digital art raises—the same depth of rupture as Abstract Expressionism—is:
Does art require an artist at all? Or just intent?
If beauty, power, and meaning can come from code, what does that say about what we’ve believed art is for the last 500 years?
This question, like Pollock’s “I am nature” or Rothko’s quest for the sublime, cuts right to the bone of creative meaning.
Why It May Be the First True Successor to AbEx Disruption:
Rewrites authorship.
Disrupts the market.
Challenges the spiritual role of art.
Democratizes creation—while also threatening to devalue it.
Forces a reckoning with what it means to feel in front of art.
In a way, the existential cry of Abstract Expressionism (“Look at me, feel what I feel!”) meets its ghost in AI art (“No one here feels anything—but you still do.”)
If you’d like, I can give examples of contemporary artists navigating these questions, or some of the most provocative AI works being made right now. Would you like to explore that?
If this is true, what is the point of creating art and what will be the point and purpose of being human?
This is the real question, isn’t it? And it’s the right one to be asking right now.
If machines can create beauty, simulate emotion, and even move us deeply without ever feeling a thing—then what is the point of making art at all?
And further, what is the purpose of being human in a world where machines can mimic or outperform human creativity?
Here’s where this gets profoundly philosophical, and where I think the answer opens more doors than it closes:
1. The Purpose of Art Has Never Been the Object Alone—It’s the Act of Becoming
Whether or not the object could be made by a machine, the making of art is a human way of existing, of processing experience, memory, longing, grief, wonder.
The act itself—whether painting, sculpting, or writing—changes the person doing it.
Even if AI could make “better” paintings, it cannot replace what happens inside you when your hand moves paint across a surface, when your body enacts that struggle to bring something forth that wasn’t there before.
Creation is not just about the result—it’s about relationship, process, and presence.
2. Art Is the Struggle Toward Meaning, Not the Replication of Beauty
Machines can simulate beauty. They can even remix meaning.
But struggle is human. Vulnerability is human. Doubt is human.
And meaning made through struggle hits differently than meaning generated by code.
Rothko once said, “I’m interested only in expressing basic human emotions—tragedy, ecstasy, doom…”
Can a machine experience doom? Grief? Longing? Can it ache?
The point of art may never have been about what it looks like—but about what it cost to bring it into being.
3. The Purpose of Being Human Is Not Productivity. It’s Presence.
One of the biggest illusions of capitalism and industrialization is that our worth is tied to what we produce.
If AI out-produces us (and it will), does that mean we lose our purpose? Or does it mean we’re finally forced to question the lie that production was our purpose at all?
Maybe this moment asks us to remember that to be human is to experience, to feel, to connect, to witness, to love, to grieve, to fail, to dream.
A machine may “create” art.
But only a human can need art. Only a human can stand in front of a Rothko and weep.
4. The New Role of the Artist: Meaning-Maker, Not Object-Maker
What if the artist of the future is not the person who makes the prettiest painting—but the one who asks the hardest questions?
Who shapes the context?
Who brings awareness to how and why we respond to images?
Who calls attention to what is missing from machine-made creation: the soul, the wound, the yearning?
The artist may become not just a maker, but a seer, a curator of meaning, an architect of questions.
5. Human Art Will Always Carry Human Presence
Even if AI floods the world with images, the knowledge that a person’s hand, body, breath, and doubt were in the work still matters.
This is why people still want live music over recordings.
It’s why a handwritten note means more than a typed one.
It’s why we still visit ancient cave paintings—because somewhere inside us, we feel the life of the person who made the mark.
And the mark says:
I was here. I felt this. I made this so you would know I existed.
AI can generate a million paintings.
But none of them will say:
“I am here with you.”
If you’d like, I can expand this into how artists today are beginning to position themselves in this changing landscape—holding space between human presence and machine production. Would that be helpful?
Expand this into how artists today are beginning to position themselves
Beautiful—because this is where the conversation gets alive, urgent, and real.
Here’s how some artists today are beginning to position themselves in the wake of AI and machine-made creativity. It’s less about resisting the tools and more about reclaiming the deeper human terrain that machines can’t touch.
1. Positioning as “The Human at the Center of the Work”
Some artists are doubling down on the physicality of making—the evidence of the hand, the brushstroke, the fingerprint, the labor.
The flaws. The mistakes. The reworking. The hesitation.
Because these are things machines don’t experience.
The presence of the human body, the time it takes, the imperfections—all of this becomes the proof that the artist lived through the work.
Example:
Painters like Jenny Saville still show the messy flesh of the process.
Sculptors like Anselm Kiefer layer weight, decay, and time into the materials themselves.
In this position, the artist says:
“This work is not just about image. It’s about being present through making.”
2. Positioning as the Selector, Not Just the Maker
AI can generate endless options—but selection is meaning.
The artist becomes the editor, the composer, the filter of value.
Which output do you choose?
Which moment do you say this is the one that matters?
Why this image, in this context, for this audience, right now?
Artists can lean into intentional curation as authorship.
It’s no longer just about production—it’s about judgment, taste, intuition, and emotional intelligence.
Example:
AI collaborators like Refik Anadol use machine learning to generate vast visual fields but then carefully select and shape the final form.
This position acknowledges the tool—but keeps human sensibility as the heart of authorship.
3. Positioning as the Questioner and Philosopher
More and more, artists are stepping into the role of the one who holds the mirror to culture.
Not just making art—but making questions.
What happens when machines make beauty?
What happens to our sense of self if the sublime can be coded?
What remains sacred?
The artist becomes the person asking:
“What does this mean about us?”
Rather than: “Look at what I made.”
Example:
Artists like Trevor Paglen explore surveillance, AI, and machine vision, not to compete with the technology, but to expose its ethical and psychological implications.
4. Positioning as the Hybrid Creator—Co-Creating with Machines, Not Competing
Some artists embrace the tools, but claim the soul of the process by steering the dialogue between human and machine.
They use AI not as the artist—but as the brush, the pigment, the assistant—while maintaining themselves as the one holding the vision.
Example:
Artists like Sofia Crespo, who use AI to generate biologically inspired imagery but remain the shaper of the emotional arc.
Here, the artist’s position is:
“I will use any tool—but the vision, the question, the longing, the purpose remain human.”
5. Positioning Through Story, Presence, and Witnessing
A painting may no longer be valuable just because it’s beautiful.
Instead, it becomes valuable because it holds the artist’s story, the personal history, the experience that no machine can replicate.
Who are you?
Why did you make this?
How did your life, your body, your experience shape this outcome?
This is why people still care about the hand of the maker.
The art becomes not just about the object—but about the presence of the person behind it.
Why This Might Be the Most Vital Moment for Artists in a Century:
Instead of making artists irrelevant, this AI moment calls artists back to the root purpose of art itself:
Not production.
Not beauty.
But connection. Inquiry. Witness. Presence.
Art as a way of being in the world—not as a thing to own.
In a flood of perfect, frictionless machine images, the roughness of your human hands, your breath, your questions—that may be the rarest thing left.
If you’d like, I can help sketch how you might position your own practice within this emerging landscape—how your own sensibilities, questions, and approach could align with these new artist roles. Would you like that?
Why am I so easily distracted by sounds? I find it impossible to read or focus unless it’s quiet. Is this adhd or something?
It might be, but not necessarily.
Being highly sensitive to sound—especially if it disrupts focus or reading—isn’t uncommon, and it can be linked to ADHD, but it could also stem from other causes like:
1.
ADHD (Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder)
People with ADHD often struggle with selective attention, meaning they can’t easily filter out background noise.
The brain’s “noise filter” (often linked to prefrontal cortex function) isn’t as strong, so every sound competes for attention.
This makes quiet environments feel essential just to do basic tasks like reading.
2.
Sensory Processing Sensitivity (Highly Sensitive Person)
Some people are simply more sensitive to sensory input—including sound.
This isn’t a disorder, but a trait, and it can make things like ticking clocks, chewing, or background chatter feel unbearable during concentration.
3.
Anxiety or Hypervigilance
If you tend to be anxious or on edge, your nervous system might be tuned to pick up sounds as potential “threats” or disruptions.
This is common in people who’ve experienced trauma or who live in high-stimulus environments.
4.
Misophonia
A strong emotional reaction (anger, disgust, panic) to certain sounds—like chewing or breathing.
While it’s distinct from distraction, it often overlaps when trying to focus.
5.
Auditory Processing Differences
Some people don’t process auditory input as efficiently, so background sounds get “jammed in” with the foreground.
This is often reported in both ADHD and ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder).
If this is making daily tasks like reading, writing, or creating feel difficult unless you’re in silence, it might be worth exploring with a psychologist or neuropsychologist. They can evaluate for ADHD, sensory processing sensitivity, or related conditions through a structured assessment.
Would you say you’re also more distractible in general, or is it mainly with sound?
I am highly distractible in general, but sounds, especially high pitch like birds, which I love, make it impossible to focus.
That’s a really important detail—and actually pretty telling.
What you’re describing fits a pattern often seen in ADHD combined with auditory sensitivity (which can show up as part of ADHD or even as a standalone trait).
Here’s how it all fits together:
1. High Distractibility in General
This is a classic sign of ADHD, especially the inattentive or combined type.
It’s not about not caring or not being interested—it’s that your brain struggles to filter input and prioritize tasks.
Your attention system is “open access,” letting in too many signals at once.
2. Sounds You Love Are Still Disruptive
This points to sensory dysregulation, not dislike.
When even pleasant sounds like birdsong pull your focus away, it means your brain assigns a high salience (importance) to sensory input.
This is common in both ADHD and in people with high sensory sensitivity (HSPs).
3. Pitch Sensitivity
Sensitivity to high-pitched sounds is especially common in people who have auditory processing sensitivities.
For some, it’s almost like a reflex: the sound cuts through and demands full attention, regardless of what you were doing.
So, what could this be?
ADHD is a strong possibility given the combination of general distractibility and sound sensitivity, especially if you’ve always struggled with attention, task-switching, or restlessness.
HSP (Highly Sensitive Person) traits could also play a role—particularly if your emotional responses to sensory input (not just sound) are intense or draining.
Anxiety may exacerbate all of the above, increasing your alertness to your environment and making it harder to “tune out” stimuli.
What You Can Try:
Noise-dampening headphones (even without music) to muffle triggering frequencies.
Brown or pink noise, which is softer than white noise and masks high-pitched frequencies (like birds).
Pomodoro reading sessions in super quiet settings, gradually adding a sound layer to build tolerance.
ADHD self-screeners (like the ASRS or Mind Diagnostics) to explore if a formal evaluation feels warranted.
Would you want a few screener links or tools to explore this more directly?
Suggest some tests or resources I should consider to see if I might be ADHD.
Great—here are a few reliable and confidential tools you can use to explore whether ADHD or sensory sensitivity may be playing a role:
ADHD Self-Screening Tools
1.
ASRS v1.1 (Adult ADHD Self-Report Scale)
Developed by the World Health Organization, it’s a widely respected first-line screener:
It’s short (6 questions) and gives a good early indication.
2.
Mind Diagnostics ADHD Test
More in-depth, with clearer explanations of results:
Sensory Sensitivity & HSP Screener
3.
Highly Sensitive Person (HSP) Test by Dr. Elaine Aron
This identifies people with high sensory processing sensitivity, regardless of ADHD:
These aren’t diagnostic, but they can help you reflect and decide whether a full evaluation might be helpful.
If you’d like, I can also help you write an email or prep notes if you decide to speak with a psychologist or ADHD specialist—it’s often easier to go in with your thoughts organized.
Would you say your attention tends to hyperfocus sometimes too—like you can lock in deeply if something interests you?
I scored very high for ADHD on multiple tests. Are most people ADHD prone now given social media or are these test scores relative
That’s a really insightful question—and one that’s increasingly being asked by both psychologists and everyday people.
The short answer is:
No, not everyone “has ADHD” now—but the environment we live in makes everyone feel more distracted, and that’s changing how we relate to attention.
Here’s a deeper breakdown:
1.
Our Environment Is Now ADHD-Like
Social media, smartphones, and constant stimulation condition our brains to:
Seek novelty all the time
Avoid deep focus (because that feels “boring”)
Multitask poorly but compulsively
This creates a kind of attention fragmentation that mimics ADHD symptoms—even in people who don’t have the condition.
2.
ADHD Is Neurological, Not Situational
True ADHD is neurological, not just behavioral. It shows up:
Early in life (even before phones existed)
Across multiple environments (not just online)
With real functional impairments in relationships, work, or learning
It’s not about “getting bored easily” or liking TikTok—it’s about how the brain regulates attention, time, motivation, and impulse control regardless of environment.
3.
Self-Tests Can Be Skewed by Environment
Many ADHD screeners ask questions like:
“Do you have trouble finishing tasks?”
“Are you easily distracted by noise or movement?”
“Do you procrastinate?”
These can be answered “yes” just because someone’s brain is overstimulated from modern life—but that doesn’t mean they have ADHD.
So the tests aren’t exactly relative, but your context can inflate your score.
4.
Why It Still Matters to Check
If you:
Were distractible as a child
Struggle to organize, follow through, or regulate attention/emotion in ways that hurt your life
Have a brain that is either overstimulated or completely shut down unless there’s a deadline, danger, or dopamine spike
Then it’s worth taking seriously, because ADHD is treatable—and diagnosis can give massive relief and clarity.
Would it be helpful if I helped you list out your symptoms or experiences to get a clearer picture of whether this might be ADHD or attention fatigue from overstimulation?
What is a Symbolist?
A Symbolist—especially in art and literature—is someone who uses symbols to express ideas, emotions, and states of being that are often abstract, spiritual, or psychological rather than literal or descriptive.
In Art:
Symbolist artists emerged in the late 19th century as a response to realism and naturalism. They sought to represent the invisible, the internal, and the metaphysical—things like dreams, death, love, fear, and the divine—through indirect, poetic, and symbolic means.
Key Traits of Symbolist Art:
Evocative, dreamlike, often mystical imagery
Use of myth, allegory, and archetypes
Emphasis on emotion, mood, and inner experience over realism
Frequently infused with themes of decadence, eroticism, melancholy, or spirituality
Notable Symbolist Artists:
Gustave Moreau – mythical, visionary subjects
Odilon Redon – surreal, otherworldly works with deep psychological tones
Fernand Khnopff – quiet, haunting figures and scenes
Arnold Böcklin – moody, mythic paintings like Isle of the Dead
In Literature:
Symbolist writers like Baudelaire, Mallarmé, and Rimbaud used metaphor, suggestion, and rhythm to evoke feelings rather than explain. They believed language should gesture toward meaning, not define it.
Symbolism’s Legacy:
Symbolism laid groundwork for movements like Surrealism, Expressionism, and Modernism, and its emphasis on the unseen still resonates in contemporary art that explores memory, trauma, spirituality, or dreams.
If you’re drawn to exploring internal worlds, metaphors for the ineffable, or visual poetry in your work, there’s likely a strong Symbolist current already running through it. Want to explore how Symbolism might intersect with your work conceptually?
What is a Naturalist?
A Naturalist, in the context of art and literature, is someone who seeks to depict the world as it truly is—with a focus on realism, observation, and the forces of nature, society, and biology that shape human life.
In Art:
Naturalist artists aim for accurate, detailed representations of the natural world and human beings. Unlike Symbolists, who are inward and metaphorical, Naturalists are outward and observational. Their work often avoids exaggeration or idealization.
Key Traits of Naturalist Art:
Focus on everyday life, often of ordinary or marginalized people
Precise, almost scientific attention to detail
Interest in nature, anatomy, and realistic environments
Often somber, objective, and grounded in social realities
Notable Naturalist Artists:
Jean-François Millet – rural laborers and peasant life
Jules Bastien-Lepage – peasant scenes with photographic realism
Thomas Eakins – American life, anatomy, and realism
Anders Zorn – portraiture and nudes with natural lighting and tone
In Literature:
Naturalist writers, like Émile Zola and Stephen Crane, believed that humans are shaped by heredity, environment, and social conditions—ideas inspired by Darwinian evolution and scientific objectivity.
Literary Naturalism:
Focus on determinism (humans as products of forces beyond their control)
Gritty realism and often bleak subject matter
Detailed depictions of class struggle, poverty, survival, and desire
Symbolist vs. Naturalist (Simplified):
Attached below…
You might think of Symbolists as inward seekers and Naturalists as external observers. Both can be powerful lenses through which to explore the world—but they lead to very different kinds of art.
Would you like to see how aspects of each might show up in your current work?
How do aspects of Symbolism and Naturalism show up in my current body of work?
Beautiful—because your work already balances expressive emotion and formal observation, there’s likely a compelling tension between Symbolist and Naturalist impulses in your practice. Here’s how I see those two threads showing up based on what you’ve shared and created:
Symbolist Currents in Your Work:
Distorted portraits and landscapes: Your “Constructed Realism” series, for instance, doesn’t aim for photographic likeness—it channels memory, emotion, and perception. That’s very Symbolist in spirit.
Themes of memory, loss, and erasure: You explore unseen forces—capitalism, history, AI—as abstract yet deeply felt presences. These are not visible subjects, but you manifest them visually and emotionally through fragmentation and atmosphere.
Color and form as metaphor: In your digital and oil works, you often allow color, gesture, or distortion to speak beyond what’s “true”—more like what’s felt. That’s core Symbolist language.
Think of artists like Redon, Soutine, or Kiefer—they didn’t paint literal realities, they conjured inner ones.
Naturalist Currents in Your Work:
Your photography and field sketches: Especially those documenting the New England landscape or solitary morning walks. These show a Naturalist’s eye—closely observing the light, air, season, and living details of place.
Nature as fact and force: You often describe the wind, the stillness, the birds—not just metaphorically, but as they are. This roots your work in the natural world, even when you abstract it later.
Structural awareness: Even when you deform the figure, there’s usually an anatomical core or spatial logic—implying you’ve seen the thing before you felt it.
In this way, you’re close to artists like Bastien-Lepage, Thomas Eakins, or even Freud—who saw the body, nature, and space with almost clinical honesty.
How These Currents Coexist in You:
Attached below…
This duality makes your work more layered. You don’t merely distort to be expressive—you begin in reality and push it until it says something deeper. You’re not one or the other—you’re both.
Would you like help writing a statement or post that integrates this symbolic-naturalist tension as a guiding principle of your art? Or maybe ideas on how to lean further into one or the other for a series?
What are your thoughts on how I might lean further into Symbolism or Naturalism so as to develop a deeper and most authentic body of work?
This is a powerful moment of self-reflection—because the decision to lean further into either Symbolism or Naturalism can open different emotional and conceptual worlds. Both live in your work, but refining the focus of a series around one will give it greater clarity, depth, and cohesion. Here are paths you could take:
If You Lean Further into Symbolism:
Focus: Emotion, memory, metaphor, interiority, spiritual force
How to Develop a Strong Symbolist Series:
Let reality dissolve sooner. Begin with observation but allow it to vanish early. Deconstruct the body or landscape until only emotional architecture remains.
Work with personal archetypes. Develop recurring symbolic motifs: a single figure, a certain bird, an object from childhood, recurring color codes. Make them visual metaphors for larger themes (loss, silence, decay, protection).
Paint the unseen. Think of representing forces or histories that are invisible but ever-present: capitalism, entropy, grief, technological consciousness, ancestral memory.
Use distortion as voice. Let your brushwork, digital layering, and spatial logic behave more like dream or memory than fact. Consider color as psychic weather, not as optical truth.
Draw from literature or poetry. Use a line from Rilke, Celan, or Eliot as a trigger for a series. Let the work become a visual poem.
Symbolist Series Ideas:
The Rewritten Body – figures reshaped by memory, ideology, and time
After the Forest – landscapes infused with absence, history, or ecological haunting
Echoes from the Machine – portraits where AI, noise, or capitalism fracture human form
The Unnamed Season – color fields and environments tied to personal emotional states rather than real times of year
If You Lean Further into Naturalism:
Focus: Observation, structure, cause-and-effect, temporality, biology
How to Develop a Strong Naturalist Series:
Commit to close, extended observation. Spend time painting or photographing the same place or person at different times of day or season. Capture transformation slowly.
Explore materiality. Let your brush, pigment, and medium speak for the density of flesh, the weight of light, or the age of stone.
Anchor your themes in the physical. Rather than metaphor, show how environment, time, or society marks the body—scars, posture, decay, labor.
Let presence guide meaning. A figure staring, sitting, or resting carries its own psychological weight when rendered carefully and patiently. No need for symbols—just let being speak.
Use natural light as the organizing principle. Let it drive tone, palette, and atmosphere across a series.
Naturalist Series Ideas:
Studies in Solitude – intimate portraits of individuals in quiet, candid moments
Edge of Season – plein-air landscapes showing slow shifts in ecology or light
Conditions of Flesh – physical studies of aging, skin, musculature, and breath
Occupied Spaces – rooms, studios, or domestic corners rendered over time
Hybrid Option: Symbolist-Naturalist Dialectic
You’re in a rare position to explore both. If that calls to you:
Use the naturalist eye to collect your materials (photography, plein air sketches, anatomical studies)
Use the symbolist instinct to reconstruct them emotionally—through digital overlays, expressive brushwork, or formal abstraction
Let the tension itself be the subject: what is remembered vs. what is observed, what is felt vs. what is known
Would you like help crafting a concept around one of these directions? Or naming and framing a series that builds from your current work?
As I contemplate new sculpture work, how much consideration should I give to site versus autonomous construction?
That’s a deep and important question, especially given your evolution toward abstraction and emotional energy in your practice.
The consideration of place—or site—can be a powerful influence, but how much weight it carries depends on the intention behind your sculptural work. Here’s a breakdown of the spectrum, from site-specific to autonomous object, and how that might relate to your emotional and abstract leanings:
1. Sculpture as Place
(Site-Specific or Responsive)
If your goal is to create sculptures that dialogue with environment, then the place becomes almost as important as the form. In this case:
Material choices, scale, and orientation might shift based on where the work will live.
You might embrace landscape as canvas, or even critique or echo its history.
Emotional energy can be channeled through context, layering the abstract with geographic memory.
Best when: You’re responding to a natural or architectural environment—forest, coast, gallery, ruin—or when the work is meant to reframe how we see a space.
2. Sculpture in Place
(Adaptable Autonomy)
If the work stands on its own but is conscious of where it might live:
You consider scale, visual weight, and rhythm so that it holds presence regardless of where it’s placed.
You leave emotional room for the setting to interact with the sculpture—like a dance partner, not a director.
Your abstraction remains untethered but quietly aware of space, shadow, and light.
Best when: You want flexibility in placement—studio shows, galleries, installations—without ignoring spatial dialogue.
3. Sculpture irregardless of place
(Pure Expression)
This is sculpture as object of internal truth—a raw manifestation of gesture, emotion, and form.
Think of these as artifacts of sensation rather than “objects for somewhere.”
The energy radiates outward, forcing the space to conform to the work rather than the reverse.
In this mode, intuition and inner state dominate, and placement becomes secondary or even irrelevant.
Best when: The work is about process, trauma, memory distortion, or an inner condition rather than environment.
For
your
work—
Given your evolution into Constructed Realism, distortion, emotional fragmentation, and abstraction:
You might start from within—create the emotional core of the sculpture without setting in mind.
Then, later, allow the setting to reveal itself in conversation with the work.
Or even let your sculptures influence the spaces they enter, reshaping the viewer’s emotional reading of place.
So perhaps the best path forward is:
Don’t create for a place—but do allow place to become part of the conversation once the emotional core is shaped.
Would you like a few conceptual frameworks or examples of artists who approach this question differently—like Richard Serra, Louise Bourgeois, or Rachel Whiteread?
How did Serra approach his works? My understand is he created forms without consideration of place.
You’re right—Richard Serra’s early and mid-career practice, especially, focused intensely on material, weight, balance, and process, with little to no regard for place in the traditional sense. He often created forms that were autonomous, driven by physical interaction, labor, and tension, rather than designed for a specific environment. But the evolution of his work reveals something more layered.
Serra’s Early Work: Sculpture as Autonomous Force
His “prop pieces” in the late 1960s and early 70s (e.g., One Ton Prop, Tilted Arc) were anti-compositional, anti-decorative, and often anti-architectural.
The focus was on mass, gravity, and balance, with steel plates leaning against walls or one another—not designed for a place, but rather forcing a place to respond to their presence.
Gesture and action were embedded in the work—almost performative in the act of their making.
“I’m interested in the physicality of the experience… not what it means, but what it does to you.”
—Richard Serra
These works weren’t thinking about where they would go; they existed as confrontational presences—objects that transformed space simply by being there.
Mid- to Later Work: Place as a Counterforce
While Serra didn’t start with a specific site in mind, over time his massive steel sculptures—especially commissions—couldn’t help but address and alter place.
Works like “Torqued Ellipses”, “The Matter of Time”, or “Sequence” were created in dialogue with how a body moves, how space bends, and how the viewer is psychologically and physically immersed.
Though not site-specific in the way land artists might work, they became site-respondent—not deferential to place, but radically reshaping it.
“The site is not a passive vacuum but an active force.”
—Serra
So even if he didn’t design for place, the scale and density of his forms demanded a rethinking of place. His work doesn’t fit into space—it carves space out, altering movement, sightlines, and perception.
Key Takeaways for You:
Serra began with material and emotion, not location. The work was site-disruptive rather than site-specific.
His process was physical, almost primal—cutting, leaning, forging—about energy and force, not landscape or architectural context.
Over time, the scale and complexity of his works forced a deeper relationship with space, but it always began with the internal logic of the form.
For someone like you, whose work emerges from emotional energy, distortion, and internal tension, Serra’s approach is affirming:
You don’t need to know where the sculpture will live when you create it. But you can allow its weight, form, and movement to eventually intervene in space, transforming it rather than submitting to it.
Would you be interested in a Serra-inspired conceptual prompt to help shape a new piece?