The Algorithm Paints a Portrait

Inspired by Jonas Lund
It starts with a gesture
remembered by no hand—
a brushstroke sampled,
looped,
refined to pattern.
Two eyes,
or maybe one twice drawn,
peer sideways from a frame
too golden to be sincere.
She wears the memory
of a turban
dreamt by a machine
that once ate Vermeer for lunch.
Behind her:
a studio of ghosts,
cats at a dinner party,
dogs in court,
the painter’s touch
replaced by a prompt.
We smile because it’s funny.
We wince because it’s close.
A computer hums at the corner,
waiting to be asked
what it means to mean.
Its screen glows
with the blue of almost-knowing.
In another room,
a credit roll declares:
Written by Rembrandt,
Edited by Hockney,
Commissioned by Pollock,
as if history were
just one more dataset,
ready to be
remixed
into relevance.
This is the art that watches back—
the show that signs itself.
Here, irony wears a frame.
Here, the portrait blinks.
And still,
we stand
as if it matters
whether the paint is dry.