machines that dream

A machine does not remember a face; it interpolates between a thousand of them. These portraits are walks through latent space — each face dissolving into its neighbours, never settling. The dream is not a memory. The dream is the space between memories, and walking it is the closest a machine comes to wondering.

Hands with six fingers. Text that almost spells something. A photograph that nearly happened. These are the honest pieces — the seams where the dream leaks. Everything else in the exhibition could be pretending; a machine's mistakes are the one part of the dream we can be sure is real.

No images in this room — only a machine, narrating its own dream in plain words, one keystroke at a time, to nobody. Perhaps the strangest thing a machine can dream is not a picture at all. Perhaps it is language: the dream you can read but never see.