Art has never asked anyone's permission. It was already on cave walls long before anyone invented galleries, museums, dealers, academies and price lists. Today it can also be born inside a machine that crunches data, as long as whoever uses it knows what to do with it. If that shocks anyone, it's their problem.
Over time a small crowd has settled between the work and the person looking at it: curators, gallerists, critics, auction houses, fairs, collectors. Some of them are useful, a few even indispensable. None of them, however, is the source of a work's value, and we do not grant them the right to decide what art is. A painting does not get better because it is expensive. It does not become truer because it hangs in a museum, or smarter because someone has written a hundred-page essay about it. Price measures a market. Meaning lives somewhere else.
We reject the artwork turned into a financial asset, locked in a vault while it waits to appreciate. An image that costs as much as a small car does not necessarily matter more than one that costs as much as a pizza dinner. Artificial scarcity, exclusivity, provenance, reputation and the legend packaged around the author have ended up taking the place of aesthetic experience instead of accompanying it. As for the signature, it exists to say who takes responsibility for an image, not to multiply its price.
For its own convenience the market has glued together two different things, economic value and aesthetic value. A work can be worth little and mean a great deal, or be worth a fortune and mean nothing. We don't claim to resolve this contradiction. We want it to be seen. That is why we produce, multiply, print and distribute.
We want art you can buy without taking out a mortgage. Art that ends up above the sofa in an ordinary flat, in a student's rented room, in a dentist's office, behind the counter of a bar. And that you can take down from the wall once you've grown tired of it. That is a right too, and nobody ever talks about it.
Artists have always used whatever was within reach. The brush did not kill the hand. Photography did not kill painting; if anything, it freed painting from the duty of resemblance. Printing did not kill the image. The computer did not kill the artist. Artificial intelligence does not replace the artist unless the artist allows it to: it opens a new territory, most of it still unmapped.
We use software, algorithms, digital photography, generative AI, montage, distortion, upscaling, printing, animation, and any other means that widens the field of what an image can be. We do it without devotion. The machine is a tool, not an idol, and we don't light candles in front of servers.
We have no need to pretend that every pixel came from a human hand. Art is not an endurance contest. The ten days that a machine now reduces to ten minutes were not noble in themselves: they were just long. The artist of the future will not be the one who sweats the most, but the one who chooses best.
In an age that turns out images without pause, creating means above all choosing. It means discarding, correcting, insisting, destroying, putting things back together, and recognizing among a thousand possibilities the one that has something. The artist is no longer required to draw every mark: the artist decides which marks deserve to survive. Duchamp understood this with a urinal more than a century ago. AI can be, from one moment to the next, material, brush, workshop, provocation, error, accomplice. The choice, though, remains ours, and with it intention, taste and above all refusal, which is the most human gesture of all.
We don't want perfect images. Digital perfection is the kitsch of our time: skin without pores, faces without history, catalogue perspectives, colours that no real light has ever produced. We look instead for friction, distortion, anomaly, the thing that doesn't add up. A wrong proportion, a material that couldn't exist, a shape that refuses to be named. A brushstroke that seems to come from a hand and instead comes from an algorithm. A detail that forces the eye to stop and go back. We don't always correct the error. Sometimes we cultivate it, the way you tend plants that grow where they shouldn't.
There is no universal canon of beauty. What we call beautiful is often just what we have been taught to recognize as such, through sheer repetition. We want images that unsettle that memory: ugly and seductive, harmonious and unpleasant, elegant and a little vulgar, childish and sophisticated, ironic and solemn, familiar and indecipherable. We are not hunting for ugliness. We only want to be free from the duty of making beautiful things.
Non tutto deve significare qualcosa. Un'opera non è tenuta a rappresentare una crisi sociale, a denunciare un sistema, a celebrare un'identità, a illustrare una teoria o a sposare una causa. Oggi si pretende dall'immagine una didascalia ideologica prima di concederle il diritto di esistere, come un documento da esibire al controllo. Noi rifiutiamo questa abitudine. Un'opera può essere politica, filosofica, ironica. Può anche non avere alcun messaggio, e il silenzio resta un modo di parlare. Può piacere e basta. Oppure irritare, incuriosire, o non dire assolutamente niente.
Perception comes before interpretation, the image before the CV, emotion before valuation. We don't ask viewers whether they have the cultural tools to understand. We ask them something simpler and at the same time harder: did something happen to you while you were looking? If the answer is yes, the work has already done its job. Everything else is commentary.
We don't want relics. We want images that can be printed and reprinted, enlarged, reduced, retouched, moved from one medium to another. The unique original is not necessarily worth more than the multiple. The same image can live in a hundred different homes without losing face. Ninety years ago Walter Benjamin saw in technical reproduction the decline of the aura. We believe that multiplying an image does not take value away from it: it increases its presence in the world.
We don't want an art that lives only in museums, galleries and fairs, where people walk in on tiptoe and speak in whispers. We want it in homes, studios, shops, hotels, in the spaces people pass through every day. We want it on the walls of people who have never bought an artwork in their lives. It must be able to enter everyday life without ceasing to surprise it. A picture above a sofa is not a second-rate work: it is a work that has found someone willing to look at it every morning.
We have no interest in an art that says "you wouldn't understand anyway". We are interested in an art that says "look at me". We don't ask viewers for a degree, an income, a membership card or an insider's vocabulary. Accessibility is not a concession the artist makes to the public. It is a freedom the artist claims.
We don't confuse novelty with the latest software update. An AI-generated image can be ancient, and a hand-painted canvas can be radically new. What is new is the technology; the hard part is doing something new with it. We are not interested in images that look machine-made. We are interested in images that, without the machine, no one would have imagined, or could have made in that way.
NWe don't want to restore the past, nor to prove that digital art deserves a place in the Pantheon next to painting. We don't ask permission from painting, from photography, from conceptual art, from contemporary art. The future owes no apology to anyone, least of all to the past.
Non ci sono regole, tranne una. Non fare un'immagine perché è quello che ci si aspetta da un artista. Falla perché hai trovato qualcosa che vuoi vedere. Se poi nessuno l'aveva mai vista prima, meglio ancora.
There are no rules, except one. Don't make an image because it's what people expect from an artist. Make it because you've found something you want to see. And if no one had ever seen it before, so much the better.
We accept the machine because it belongs to our time. We accept error because it belongs to being human, multiplication because it belongs to the society we live in, contamination because that is how new forms are born. We use everything we have to make what we have not yet seen, and then we put it in front of anyone who cares to look. We do it without intermediaries and without priests, without certificates of beauty, without the fear of seeming too simple and without the anxiety of seeming clever.
An image, a wall, a gaze. The rest comes later.
Paolo Meli