The pistil becomes an elegant gear shift
In the movie, Poltergeist, there is an early scene where the residents of the haunted house play with the ghosts. JoBeth Williams places little Heather O’Rourke on the kitchen floor, and she slides across the room, propelled by an apparently playful poltergeist. The relationship with their invisible guests was enjoyable until it wasn’t.
We’re in the playful stage of our relationship with A.I., artificial intelligence. I suggest we stop referring to this unfolding technology as “AI” and start calling it “II:” Inorganic Intelligence. Something is happening that is fun, interesting, compelling, and ominous.
Let’s have fun with it before it starts having fun with us. I recently signed into my Open AI account to interact with Chat GPT. Chat GPT mines the Internet for information that lets it mimic human communication, allowing it to follow instructions, compose written works, even engage in conversations. It basically absorbs the Internet in total, essentially memorizing all human knowledge. (NASA sent a copy of the entire then-existing Internet on a deep space mission to allow extra-terrestrials to learn our ways; let that sink in.)
I decided to ask Chat GPT to compose three original works: (1) write a 300-word article describing a Georgia O’Keefe painting in automotive terms; (2) write a haiku using the word, “arugula; and (3) write a 200-word essay describing Michelangelo’s David as experienced by a blind person.
Here is the O’Keefe essay:
“In Georgia O’Keeffe’s masterpiece, ‘Blossoming Velocity,’ her exquisite use of automotive terminology infuses the canvas with a captivating energy, bringing together the worlds of art and mechanics in a seamless union. The painting, like a finely tuned engine, roars to life with its vibrant colors and precision brushwork.
At first glance, one is immediately struck by the boldness of the composition, reminiscent of a sleek sports car gracefully tearing through the open road. The fiery red hues dominating the foreground are like the gleaming paint job of a high-performance vehicle, radiating power and speed. These intense tones are juxtaposed against the deep, midnight blue background, mirroring the velvety midnight sky that envelops the fast-moving vehicle.
The focal point of the painting, a single, resplendent blossom, takes center stage like a gleaming chrome emblem emblazoned on the car’s grille. Its petals burst forth like the petals of a blooming engine, each delicate curve reflecting a sense of controlled acceleration. The flower’s pistil and stamen are like the finely tuned components of an engine, working in perfect harmony to create beauty and power.
O’Keeffe’s use of lines is equally remarkable, drawing the viewer’s eyes along the contours of the petals and stems, evoking the sensation of wind rushing past a speeding car. The lines converge and diverge with precision, much like the meticulously engineered pathways of air and fluid in a high-performance automotive design.
In the midst of the floral acceleration, O’Keeffe employs subtle hints of automotive machinery. The pistil becomes an elegant gear shift, ready to engage a higher velocity. The petals themselves are like the aerodynamic body of a race car, designed for maximum efficiency and fluid motion.
With each stroke of her brush, O’Keeffe masterfully captures the essence of automotive speed, translating it into the language of art. ‘Blossoming Velocity’ is not just a painting of a flower, but a symphony of mechanics and aesthetics, merging the elegance of nature with the precision of engineering.
In conclusion, Georgia O’Keeffe’s ‘Blossoming Velocity’ is a mesmerizing fusion of automotive ingenuity and artistic expression. Through her use of color, lines, and form, she creates a dynamic visual experience that embodies the grace and power of a finely tuned racing machine. Like a well-crafted automobile, this painting invites us to take a thrilling journey into the heart of both art and mechanics.”
This is an interesting, if somewhat daffy, essay that might be based on fantasy. I Googled, but could not locate, a Georgia O’Keeffe painting called “Blossoming Velocity.” Perhaps my robot co-author made it up out of whole cloth – or canvas.
Here’s the haiku:
“Arugula’s delight,
Peppery leaves dance with glee,
Nature’s green delight.”
Okay, Chat GPT sucks at haiku.
Finally, here is the David essay:
“As a blind individual stands before Michelangelo’s David, they embark on a journey of sensory exploration that transcends visual limitations. Through the keenness of their touch and the heightened perception of their other senses, they unravel the essence of this magnificent masterpiece.
With outstretched hands, the blind person gently explores the contours of the statue’s body, their fingers following the graceful curves of the marble, tracing the chiseled muscles and the powerful pose of David. The cold, smooth surface under their fingertips reveals the artist’s expert craftsmanship, conveying the essence of strength and determination.
As they move upwards, their hands reach the delicate features of David’s face, discovering the carved lips that seem to be on the verge of speech and the intricately textured hair that adorns the head. They can sense the furrowed brow, capturing the moment of determination before facing Goliath.
The blind person’s fingers continue their journey down to the statue’s legs, feeling the tension in the calf muscles and the positioning of the feet, frozen in the moment of action. They sense the balance and poise that Michelangelo so masterfully imbued into his work.
Moreover, the blind person listens intently to the echo of their gentle taps on the marble, absorbing the statue’s grandeur through the resonating sounds. They listen to the hushed whispers of other visitors, the soft footsteps on the floor, and the faint echoes of admiration and wonder that surround them.
The blind person also perceives the atmosphere around David – the faint aroma of stone and museum, the cool draft that breezes past them, and the distinct feeling of being in the presence of something extraordinary.
Through touch, sound, and smell, the blind person’s perception of Michelangelo’s David is profound and vivid, evoking emotions of awe and admiration, making it a testament to the timeless power of art that transcends the boundaries of sight.”
That would qualify as erotic pulp fiction except the bot forgot David has genitalia.
If you decide to play with Chat GPT and give it interesting tasks like I did, feel free to share. I’ll happily publish your human-AI collaboration in my blog. Just email me a copy to mike@substantialdisruption.com.
© 2023 by Mike Tully
<<< YOU CAN READ / DOWNLOAD A PDF VERSION BY CLICKING HERE >>>
The Whiffenpoof Song
The choir assembled when Hell stormed the Lord’s Day on December 7th, 1941. It reconvenes every annual remembrance of that first gathering. Every year the choir grows. Those who join these days are gray, bent, proud and too frequently forgotten. But their voices, when mingled with those more ancient, reach the stars. We raise our glasses to the ones who didn’t make it through on this day, and they silently return our toast. Silently, that is, but for the echoes of an anthem of the Greatest Generation.
From the tables down at Mory’s, to the place where Louie dwells,
To the dear old Temple bar we love so well.
I hear it on this day, that strange echoing Kipling parody that Dad would break into three Cuba Libres after sunset. The song had the same resonance as his war stories, his matter-of-fact admission that caves were sealed on his orders, trapping Japanese combatants in a grave of dwindling oxygen. Dad said he never pointed a weapon and killed during the war. He merely gave orders and men died. The only weapon he brought home was a sword taken from the battlefield that hangs in my office. He never brought firearms home. My Dad, who hunted with weapons for sustenance in his childhood and carried weapons in the Pacific Theater, would not have them in the house.
Sang the whiffenpoofs assembled with their glasses raised on high
And the magic of their singing casts its spell.
When I was a boy, I imagined the whiffenpoofs some manner of secret society that met furtively at Mory’s, or the Temple Bar, or wherever Louie dwells. I didn’t know the song was a spoof of Rudyard Kipling’s self-indulgent “Gentlemen Rankers.” All I knew was that Dad must have emptied glasses while belting its verses in some local iteration of the Temple Bar, maybe in dusty old Tucson, maybe in a jungle best forgotten. Whatever the inspiration, his singing cast a spell.
Yes the magic of their singing,
Of the songs we love so well:
“Shall I Wasting” and “Mavourneen” and the rest!
We will serenade our Louie,
Til health and voices fail,
What a carpe diem statement! I think that is what grabbed me, young as I was, still unschooled in death and loss. We will serenade our Louie Til health and voices fail. Damn! Of course! Why not! Sing it now, sing it loud, sing it proud. We shall never grow old!
“Those were the days, my friend, we thought they’d never end.”
– (Gene Raskin, recorded by Mary Hopkin, 1970)
The choir sings “the songs we love so well” every December 7th and every succeeding choir is louder and stronger than those that sang before. The Whiffenpoof choir has grown by more than a factor of ten since then and adds members every year.
And we’ll pass and be forgotten with the rest.
There are few of them left now, stragglers on history’s beach, keeping their memories and songs alive until they join the choir. It is fitting, I think, that they revered “The Whiffenpoof Song” and adopted it in tavern lore throughout the land. Fitting, because it is common-man self-deprecating, no longer an ode to the glories of soldierhood, but an ode to time spent with those we love, in whatever Temple Bar we love so well. This is what sanctifies The Greatest Generation: they celebrate their ordinariness. When they saved the world, they didn’t come home to raise hell. They came home to raise kids. They didn’t think of themselves as heroes. The heroes were the ones who didn’t make it back.
We are poor little lambs
Who have lost our way,
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We are little, black sheep
Who have gone astray!
Baa! Baa! Baa!
The Kipling parody of 1910 had a very different meaning after the two World Wars of the 20th century. War had made “black sheep” of the finest of the Whiffenpoof men. Unlike the regretful supplicants of Kipling’s work, the Whiffenpoof men had not joined military service because they were black sheep. Quite the contrary. They joined because they were Americans, and not all of them joined voluntarily.
My Dad sang “The Whiffenpoof Song” and I heard the echoes of regret and mortality in his song. We were all lost sheep, that is what he meant when he sang, and he sometimes seemed the lostest sheep of all.
Once, during one of my visits to the Memorial of the U.S.S. Arizona in Pearl Harbor, I watched an elderly Japanese lady toss a lei made of orchids onto the oily surface of the waters that barely cover the glorious old hulk. The flowered lei danced and bobbed in the calm Pacific as the oil from the wreck wrote mute rainbows in the waters around it. I quietly thanked the Japanese lady for sharing her prayer.
If you have not visited the Arizona Memorial in Pearl Harbor, I advise you to do so as soon as you can, because the survivors are dwindling in number. They will share the visit with you. They still make the pilgrimage, American, Japanese, and others.
But the ones who lived it are joining the chorus. Soon, they will all be gone and with them, the memory of what it was like to save the world. The sky will be filled with voices every December 7th but the land will be silent. The Greatest Generation will have passed and been forgotten with the rest.
As long as I have breath, I will salute them on this day.
Gentlemen songsters off on a spree
Damned from here to eternity
Lord have mercy on such as we!
Baa! Baa! Baa!
(“The Whiffenpoof Song” was written in 1909 by Meade Minnigerode and George S. Pomeroy)
© 2023 by Mike Tully
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