Echo

What happens when a work of art responds to its own description? This series begins not with prompts but with finished pieces of text—essays and statements written for earlier projects. Instead of directing AI with prescriptive phrases in the usual manner, the writing itself was fed back into the system. Flux was asked to read, digest, and dream in response. The results are uncanny: images that echo the language that once explained them. Description becomes instruction; reflection becomes creation. Each picture is an afterimage of words, a ghost of its own narrative, looping art back through language until text and image blur.

The process reveals something unpredictable and strangely alive. Arca’s wreckage returned as cabinets both fictional and more fictional still. Anthos bloomed into bouquets that shimmer differently from their original still lifes, softer and stranger, like recollections rather than depictions. Lignis became wood that had never been carved, petals like fossilised memory. Vitris, gleaming in crystalline detail, seemed almost closer to Murano glass than the first set. Each experiment was less about fidelity than about resonance: what qualities of the text would Flux seize on? What metaphors would become literal? Which phrases would fracture into colour, shape, or gesture?

This approach points toward a new practice—not prompt engineering, but something else entirely. It is linguistic chance, a kind of aleatoric ekphrasis where the artwork is reborn through its own interpretation. The images are not illustrations of text, nor are they free inventions; they are echoes, distortions, reflections. They occupy a threshold between documentation and imagination, a recursive circuit where words become pictures and pictures become words again. If the original projects asked what AI could simulate, this series asks what AI can misunderstand—and whether in that misunderstanding it reveals something deeper. The experiment is as much about process as product, but the outcome is compelling: eighteen images that stand apart from their origins, marked not by instruction but by reverie, fragments conjured by the act of description itself.