Our Flame will never be Extinguished The chosen elite who entered the rotting, worm-eaten confessional to seize the primrose were never saviours sent to bring lasting peace or settled order. That was merely vanity blazoned across their heraldry. In truth, they were the indispensable stewards of the loop, anointed not to break the wheel, but to ensure its teeth kept grinding. They took the pale, delicate bloom, the Acclimatisation Society’s consecrated symbol of subjugation, fully aware that planting it within the unyielding ironstone would provoke the very friction keeping the world aflame. They required the transgression; they needed the spark. For the empire does not endure by resting in triumph, but feeds upon the perpetual, exhausting struggle of its own unfinished conquest. As rebels swarm the grand, baroque plazas and consume the cathedral of yesterday, they believe they are dismantling their oppressors' fortress. Raising torches, they watch ancient spires dissolve into a t...
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Converging Traffic Manila
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Converging Traffic in Manila poem
I am a passenger entering Manila.
The complexity of the city's carriageways and lanes is both bewildering and fascinating.
I gaze out, trying to make sense.
Through the web of intricate pathways.
The traffic is fluid; however, I experience it as chaotic.
My driver remains steadfast as vehicles converge and exit.
Intuitively understanding this dynamic system.
Balancing the collective's expectations with our personal needs.
I trust him as he orchestrates our safe path through.
Converging Traffic and Apparition in Manila
I err on the side of detecting threats in ambiguous situations.
Crossroads of the past, present and future
Convergence of Traffic and Apparition
As I sit in traffic, the air in Manila feels thick, with countless engines and people going about their day. I find myself staring out of the windshield, taking in the vibrant scene of city life. Within the chaos, I sought refuge from the uncertain situation.
Suddenly, amidst the honking and the hustle, I notice a figure. It seems almost ghostly, gliding effortlessly above the cars and people. This apparition feels like a manifestation of my anxiety and the rich history of Manila. It's as if the city's past has been woven into my present reality.
The figure appears to float gracefully, transcending into a bright future. It's as if this apparition bridges what was, what is, and what is yet to come. For a fleeting moment, I feel a deep connection to the essence of Manila, as seen through this apparition amidst the city's ever-moving pace.
This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws. Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without written permission of the sponsor is prohibited.
AI ART and Meaning What role does an artist play when employing AI? Artist statement by JJFBbennett If we accept that AI can generate vast quantities of statistically “meaningful” content from data and algorithms, then meaningful art may lie not in the output itself, but in its selection and framing. AI functions as a kind of unconscious, producing raw material at scale. The artist’s role shifts from maker to curator: deciding what to extract from the data’s noise, what to present as art, the context in which it appears, and the conversation it enters. The artist as the muddler and meddler in the centre of it all. This shift has an art-historical precedent. In 1917, Marcel Duchamp’s *Fountain* made a decisive claim: the artist had not sculpted the urinal but selected it, titled it, and placed it in a gallery. Meaning arose from the gesture of choice rather than the act of making. Walter Benjamin, too, anticipated this logic in his reflections on montage and editing: meaning can e...
Empire of the Primrose poem The city fell in a single night. Holding it would take longer. So the painters were summoned, and the saints on the walls were given his family's eyes. A bloodline was found for him, older than the walls, older than the kings who raised them. Now even the earth must forget it ever belonged to anyone else. The Empire of the Primrose - Station 1 Do you have recurring dreams? Travel Sketches by metamodernist artist JJFBbennett The cycle always resets at dusk, like waking inside the cold architecture of an unyielding, repetitive dream. I walk the wet, cobbled veins of an ancient European city, passing beneath stone arches hung with heavy, lifeless flags, heraldry drained of colour, damp cloth clinging to wooden poles like dead skin. There is no breath of wind, only the low, humming pressure of an era turning in its sleep. I reach into an iron sconce and tear loose a torch of roaring, ragged fire. The flame casts jittering amber shad...
The Territory of the Little People - Storm Clouds Approaching The atmosphere over Pine Creek churns before it breaks. The sky stops being a distant ceiling, and tears open into a fevered, gestural vortex, churning in fierce ribbons of cadmium gold, raw ember, and bruised ink. Here, in the suffocating stillness of the build-up, the heat plays violent tricks on my inner eye. As the squall gathers, the twisting ironwoods and fractured ridges don't feel empty; they crawl with the uncanny belief of the Little People, low-slung, watchful phantoms spun from wire, red dust, and dry static, waiting out the road's fragility. Every jagged branch and swirling filament of cloud becomes a face, an arm, a sinister presence breathing inside the rising storm, drawing the traveller deeper into the delirium of the interior. Pine Creek Storm Front Torn black filaments of wind and shadow seemed to claw straight out of the atmosphere, dripping down like hot tar, twisting through the spindly ironwo...
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