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AI Catgirls

by Alexa Colvin

AI’s making art. 
Well. “Art.”

 
AI’s generating arching, blushing, sultry catgirls. 


They’re curvy; they’re flirty; if you look at their hands then you recognize 
them for the clawing, cloying, irony-poisoned debutantes that they are. 
Their fingers are twisted, their eyes lifeless, and their pixelated smirks rival 
Mona Lisa’s. 


Distorted and dainty and well-endowed, these modern-day muses are 
defeating the legacy of the softly posed, gently lit, wistfully wishing Baroque 
beauties. 
Extravagance, ethereality, and art is being redefined and we are lucky enough 
to bear witness to the buxom revolution.


Post-postmodern opulence: NFT’s and demure anime women. 

If art is whatever makes you feel something, do the questioning CAPTCHA’s 
that beg me to disclose if I am or am not a robot count? 
Mosaics of stop signs and trains and are you sure that's a boat? 

 

Content machines choke down post after post, artist after artist swallowed 
whole like Demeter, like Hera, like every Greek god that could not escape 
Kronos’s clacking, rattling, clicking teeth. 
He is Time and time is ticking.


“You can’t stop the future,” techbros defend. They boast the effort that 
making a program generate two wanton, weeping, cream-colored waifs takes. 
Decades of practice, of growing, of grieving, of learning, of becoming
shredded into thin, digestible, profitable prompts and fed into the gnashing 
maw of production. 

Pretty blonde girl smiling, cat tail, anime, big eyes, long eyelashes, by Akihito 
Yoshida, oil painting, high detail, more detail, trending on artstation, trending 
on DeviantArt, trending, hourglass figure, cute, art liberated from artist, Taylor 
Swift, kawaii aesthetic, art reflects life and life is waxen and tired and

For only $75, he’ll type up a prompt just for you. It’s hard work, figuring out if 
“cute redhead smiling” or “cute redhead grinning” garners a better result. 
A collage of pallid, pastel pussies; Twitter is his Sistine Chapel.

 

Avant garde and seductive, watch Natalie Portman’s face stretch over a busty 
homunculus; uncanny and wilting, she’s malleable. She’s accessible. She’s so 
consumable.


Is it theft or is it just really, really close? 


Does what “real” art is even matter? Disregard the arguments about replicating 
passion or soul or any of those intangible things that moralists will talk 
themselves hoarse over— 
Is this an identity crisis? Who are we if not creators? Consumers? 

 

If mankind is already doomed —
a meteor shower of capitalistic, pollutive inevitability battering down on our 
present and future

we all wear blotchy bruises and lick our wounds before the next shift.

 

— Where’s the harm in indulging in some giggling, rosy-cheeked colleens?
They’re easy, cheap, and fun; it’s shopping at Walmart instead of local. 
It’s eating McDonald’s instead of homemade pastas and farmer’s market sauces. 
It’s grinding your cigarette butt out on the concrete because recycling doesn’t 
actually do anything, do you even watch the news?

It’s escapism. Feed the feline beast or be eaten by it.

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