more thoughts on AI

Replicating thinking is not thinking.

The attraction of AI, mapping cognitive processes, finding out where 'conciousness' resides and other grand sounding questions lies in a fundamental confusion. That is: the replication of thinking activity so that what you have looks like someone thinking is NOT the same as someone thinking.

Replicating thinking is quite boring- as Alexa, predictive texting, smart algorithms, smart cars and other computer marvels have indicated. Even a computer that makes music better than Beethoven would not be as interesting as Beethoven- it would simply be - a clever machine. The reason is - thinking is the tip of the iceberg of being human, and being human is the real mystery. Making something that replicates thinking is like making a robot that can dance and sing- at first it is WOW and then it is 'can I knock this thing over'...

Fear of AI is misplaced. Even if we make machines that can do all kinds of thinking activities including creative ones we will still have machines which need turning on and off. (Of course you could program a 'purpose' into a machine so it turns itself on and off but that still isn't 'thinking'.) Animatronics can now deliver a creature that looks and behaves very like a cat- but it isn't a cat. Since thinking is something only humans can do (it is a defining human activity) then any machine that immitates thinking is simply doing that- a rather limited thing.

But we get excited and use 'thinking' in the wrong way. What we mean is 'immitates thinking in this way'. That takes the excitement out but also makes things clearer. Of course people are using this confusion to raise money for expensive projects that seem to promise endless life etc. Obvious idiocy like 'the singularity' fall into this category. Even if all your memories could be uploaded how would you choose which memories to 'view' at any one time (which is 'thinking')? 

Notes on Walks of Art

In the twentieth century the experience of making art began to challenge for prominence the work itself. Unthinkable before, but reasonable once the artist replaces the priest/shamen as the conduit to the mysterious, the surrealists and expressionists began to experiment with ‘automatic’ (ie. fast and without reflection or pause) painting and drawing. This gradually began to seep into the artistic world and artists began to see the feelings they had making art, how comfortable they were so to speak, as a key signal that they were ‘on course’. Because, as Picasso rightly said, since Van Gogh every artist must create his own mythology or follow the only other path the modern world allows: the doomed artist.

But once the genii is out of the box the feeling begins to trump the finished work. Hence some of the more nonsensical seeming works of performance art and Joseph Beuys type ‘rubbish’ art. Which from the new point of view make total, if subjective, sense.

It was therefore only a matter of time that walking should become to be seen as an artistic practice in itself. Which is ludicrous if the job of art is to produce art objects but very reasonable if the job of art is to produce a shift in consciousness in the artist (which he or she can communicate if they like, but that is secondary). The shift is really just a minor ‘high’- the kind you get from any sort of low level continuous exercise, combined with insights gathered during the walk from observation plus reflection. Walking has, since the beginning of time, been sometimes used as a form of meditation. The ‘journey’- made by walking – is a key metaphor in many religious systems. The pilgrimage is a central part of many religions too. Therefore the sanctity surrounding some kinds of walking is exactly the kind of sub-shamanic appeal the modern artist is seeking.

Here are a few rules for walks of art:

1.  The destination is not important but there needs to be one.
2. Or the walk is circular, starting from some symbolic or significant place.
3. Taking in views, monuments, hills, trig points is all unnecessary and can actually be detrimental as it divides the walk into ‘highs and lows’- which is the province of normal life. The main point of the ‘walk of art’ is to enter a special state that is maintained throughout the walk- call this ‘covering the entire canvas’. This can be likened to making an image surrounded by white on a canvas as opposed to making something that fills the whole thus utilising and balancing positive and negative space.
4.  Gear and other things are only important in as much as they ‘help the trundle’- ie. maintain the continuous momentum of the walk which in turn enables the right state of mind- a sort of dulled contemplative mind (which can be surprisingly productive of ideas but in sequence rather than chasing each other’s tails as in normal life after a coffee or two).
5. Small things are the best things- so stuff on the floor, things you notice about others, small conversations, snippets of life so to speak- these are the fabric of a walk of art. You may of course stumble on a murder in progress and the drama levels would rise, but drama is simply unnecessary for this kind of practice. You have to trust to life to deliver its continuous if (in comparison to the TV) rather muted messages.
6. Distance is important. The longer the better, as long as you don’t get too tired out or injured in some way. Two hours is a good minimum to enter the right state of mind. This is not an absolute thing. A walk of art is not a drug trip. It is not something you consume. The object is to produce something- even if it is just a series of images- captured or not by drawing or photography or words or objects found. These may or may not be communicated to others. Just gathering them seems enough, enriching all in some way.
7. The walk of art differs from an exercise walk in that the objective is different. In the exercise walk the body is there to be used and the mind can wander- like runners who use earphones to dull the boredom of running- such walkers are not so interested in their surroundings except as stimulation- hence the need for hills and views and such like. The walk of art can even be along a main highway tedious though that they may seem (though the real tedium of such a walk is the noise and danger of traffic). The idea is to get the mind into a certain way of operating so that ‘somethings comes of the walk’. It is hard to be more precise than that. Perhaps the notion of a walk of art is meant to get us moving rather than explain something completely.

a definition of art

I was in the art supply shop recently and the man there, with whom I have an on-off relationship owing to the fact that he once refused to accept a card payment for £7.99 as his 'minimum' was £10, told me that there is a global shortage of POSCA pens and canvases of all kinds. I realised I had seen no canvases in The Works or his shop and the POSCA pen stand in Cairo's famed Samir and Aly art shop had been half empty. The world it seems, has gone art mad. And by art I mean the real world meaning of the word: the production of art objects. If something is treated as an art object then we should call it art. It doesn't have to be sold- it can be given away as much art is (and this is the reason I hold art to be higher than literature in the global halls of peace and understanding- so much of it is given away and gratefully received unlike that darn poetry reading you attended under duress...) I digress, but then digression is the one thing a blog absolutely needs in order to thrive. all attempts at narrowing a blog down stifle the desire to produce- I and my faithful readers know of some of my attempts to 'specialise'. This is doomed to failure- as are all 'company blogs' which no one in their right mind would ever read. The blog, in order to achieve, value must be an endless sea on which one sets sail hoping for land but not necessarily expecting to arrive...

Anyway, art, it is growing in popularity for two reasons- obvioulsy covid inspired indoors living has a part to play- but even before this pandemic I felt the air was changing. Words have become too polluted. They have been politicised beyond utility. The left brain plummeting of the world needs a natural balance and that is to be found in doing art and music. Words have a part to play, but on their own, they gang up against us with their current demands for ideological purity. When the words of past writers are deemed offensive rather than merely interesting examples of deformed or aberrant thinking then we are heading to a world in which words can only be used sparingly.

Where does that leave the blog? in which length and prolixity over time are its strong suit? As a form of documentation of the times? I see the blog form, with its odd 'foghorn' to the world ambitions as carrying on as an exercise in duration. Yet to avoid emptiness in must continue to address the issues that interest the blogger.

I end on the inspiration for this post: what is art? I now love it when people ask this question (used to find it jejeune) as my own views change all the time. Currently I believe that producing art objects (paintings, drawings, scupltures, exhibtions, installations) is what makes something art. Whether that art honours truth and beauty mainly or celebrates the death instinct is a place where even the same artist can be divided. But even the most death-driven work has to honour some aesthetic principles which are derived from truth and beauty, herein lies the ruggedness and resilience of artistic practice.

TGO Chris Townsend praise

High Praise for my latest book walking the Great North Line by the King of Walkers Chris Townsend: "I found accompanying the author on his walk  interesting and enjoyable. Never being sure where his magpie mind would jump to next was always intriguing. This is a curious but worthwhile addition to the literature of walking. Recommended!"

When left brain tries to imitate an absent right brain

When you are connected to the right brain and the creativity is flowing you may be only dimly aware of your ‘framework level’. All right brain activity- intuitive, creative, problem solving, insight and foresight generating must be channelled through the left brain interface or framework. In the classical analogy of the driver in the carriage, the driver is the left brain and the passenger is the right brain (the horses are emotions and the carriage is the body). The passenger has no grip of the reins, no commands for the horses and no knowledge of the road’s condition- only where he wants to go. The left brain is how we interact with the world (the analogy isn’t completely airtight but it works well enough). The right brain- though we hear it speaking to us through hints, coincidences noted, inspirations and dreams, cannot be ‘commanded’ into action, only lured by the existence of a functioning carriage set up.

Now a clever driver, observing that when the right brain is in control that the carriage may take a scenic route, may try to imitate that himself by wandering around, acting in a random way and generally being ‘undirected’. This is the left brain imitating the right and it is the scourge of hippies, artists and creative types the world over. The key is: the left brain has no knowledge of the right- yep- it can only copy and follow orders. Give it an inch, though, and it’ll try and run the show. The right brain is moody. If the left brain takes over it may simply desert. If the carriage is broken it may decide to take a holiday elsewhere. If the horses are out of control it will sit tight and say nothing. The right brain is the only one that can give orders but you have to have the right conditions for it to do so. When they are absent the clever old copying left brain tries to imitate the right through being random, slovenly, staring out the window in a ‘stuck’ manner, spiralling inwards into introspection (the left brain trying to ‘solve’ directional problems without knowing the destination) or by becoming obsessed (ie. repeating the same thing over and over again). Being ‘passionate’ about ‘your art’ can often mean simply a left brain obsession has taken hold. Watch it flower into a photo collection entitled 57 Trig points- each one identical to the last except for the identifying number…

You can reconnect often to the right brain by giving it a command structure that works. The more rigid the set up (as long as it doesn’t choke the right brain with boredom) the better the right brain can operate. Hence artistic rules and conventions (and the need for the poor modern artist to invent his or her own). Hence the use of unvarying routine by writers to get work done. Hence the use of rhyme in poetry- as a handmaiden to the emerging ideas of the right brain.

But take away the handrails and the right brain gets scared- takes a look over the edge and retreats. It happened to me while doing my first novel. I thought I could write it as I wrote a non-fiction memoir- just sit down each day and splurge on. What I didn’t realise was that the memoir was already ‘written’ in the sense of having a rigid structure based on what really happened. With the novel, I had set nothing in stone- it was all up for grabs- and that’s what freaked out the right brain- it was having to find more than one destination at a time. Maybe that is the best way to look at it- only expect the right brain to find one destination at a time. Just as Shakespeare started with borrowed stories or a crime writer uses a conventional template so the novelist must give the right brain something to ‘grip’ on to. Many contemporary novelists have as their ‘handle’ some trauma that occurred to them in early life. This is the rigid structure on which the right brain may freely invent.

But without that there is just grey gunk being stirred by an increasingly nervous left brain ‘operating system’. Often it resorts to puns and reworked micromemories- as Joyce did in Finnegan’s Wake- which, unlike Ulysses, has no confining structure. Puns and other fancy filigrees are mechanical left brain creativity and hence well liked by people on the spectrum, Aspergers being, largely, a disorder that seems to display marked left brain preferences. Beckett’s use of mud and crawling through mud in his short stories is again a left brain form of creativity. You thought only the right brain could create? Not at all. But only the right brain can make counter-intuitive leaps, inspired choices, really connect. The left brain does inversions, copies, random squiggles, mixes and matches- all the stuff a computer program does when ‘composing’ a poem or making ‘modern art’. This is a clue- if you can write a program for it then it’s left brain activity.

Now, it may well be, that, like Shakespeare you have a very powerful creative sense- therefore match it with equally rigid structures to work on- so the right not the left is favoured. As TS Eliot found out- either copy another poets structure or use a myth to ground the freeform basis of much modern art.

But ignore this and the left brain will strike out on its own. It will see subtlety where nothing real exists. It will become entranced by trivia. It will circle endlessly an idea best left well alone. All because it doesn’t KNOW. Only the right brain has certainty.

And when we just don’t know we panic. We get nervous and stressed and anxious. Sound familiar?

what is right for you

Lower morality prepares us for higher morality; in the lower morality there are good and useful rules which, if followed diligently and conscientiously yields either obsession, or, hopefully and mostly, a realisation that there is something beyond the rules yet, crucially, the self-control which is bred through denying any old impulse. The higher morality is simply the intuition, very easily drowned out by greed and fear, or what is right for you. Not the planet, the people, or the church- you. Ah, but the rub is you cannot hear this voice if your only concern is YOU. But with lower morality training you can at least know what is a whimsical or greedy impulse and what isn't. You have to cut loose from ought and should- these are really projections of fear. It is the reason why the higher morality has been misinterpreted so much (and was considered a secret)- it sounds like do what though wilt. But it is simply a realisation of the unity of self and universe interpreted through action. 

An early journey

I was five. I had already started school which was only two roads away. I went with my sister everyday yet I have no actual recollection of any part of the journey except once when I found a St Christopher medal stamped by accident into the fresh tarmacking of the road. I retrieved it with eager anticipation, joy even. Having a St Christopher- which all the Italian and Polish Catholic kids at my school did- was something I most dearly wanted. And now I had my own. The patron Saint of travellers had bewitched me before I even knew it. But the medal belonged to a beautiful silent boy called Ricardo who I adored- in fact by the kind of amazing coincidence that characterises normal life it was his medal, the one that I had for so long coveted, so I had to give it back to him and so I never got one, not even now.

I lived in the small English spa town of Leamington. Once it had been rather a refined place to live. The pump rooms in town where people had taken the cure were now only a minor attraction, an adjunct to the municipal baths where I clung with timidity to the poolside every Wednesday during a swimming lesson before going home to a supper of Brains faggots and frozen peas and potatoes. I was never adventurous when surrounded by a group. I was only given to bravado when I was alone. 

No. Hold on. I was four. It was before I went to school. I was still at home being looked after by my mother because I hadn’t liked the nursery my sister went to. I wanted to be at home. I didn’t want to go to school or be with other kids at least not now. My mum was going to the shops and I went with her with the promise of watching the diggers at work on a reclaimed bombsite they were finally building on. Three big diggers at work while my mum went to the line of shops only a couple of roads away from home. The roads were straight, lined with pollarded limes that shook a black knotted fist of tree at you. My mum would go first in the grocers, then in the vegetable shop and then the butchers and I stood watching the diggers when a man in a long dark coat the kind that get a fur of moisture on them in very cold damp weather appeared by my side and started talking. He had a black old fashioned hat on and a dark scarf. He asked me what I was doing and I told him about watching the diggers. He said that my mum had asked him to take me home. He put out his large leather gloved hand, a paddle of a hand and grasped mine gently. We set off walking down the long straight stretch of pollarded limes, the empty November sky. He seems a nice man I thought though this isn’t the way home but I said nothing.  Maybe he knows the way home a different way I explained to myself. We  were now about a hundred or more yards away from the diggers when I could hear the agitated noise of leather soles on tarmac and a flapping coat of someone running. I recognised the grey shop coat of the nice man Mr Hilton from the grocers shop he was red faced from the run he said my mum was waiting for me the man in the hat without a word slipped my hand was gone hurrying as if sideways down the street. Gone, fast, without a word while Mr Hilton watched him with a puzzled look on his red face. My mum was so happy and upset and said she would never let me watch the diggers alone again and I must never go off with someone even if they said they were taking me home. But what about Mr Hilton. Unless you know them she said.

OK, so I was now five, going to school and I found Ricardo’s Saint Christopher which I dearly wanted to keep for myself and did for a day and then by evening I told my mum and she said I had to give it back or at least tell the school as it probably was someone from the school even though I had found it in the street. After Ricardo I fixated on a girl called Helen who I asked to my birthday- maybe my sixth birthday but she didn’t come and I asked my mum to phone her during the birthday party but still she didn’t come. But another girl called Naomi, a robust boyish girl with dark arched eyebrows who once beat a boy up, she did come and wanted me to be her boyfriend. One day I had done a painting I didn’t want to take home and Naomi agreed to take it home if I agreed to let her call me her boyfriend. I agreed but managed to wriggle out of it later like all things kids do things are soon forgotten new stuff crowds in and life must go on. It is the stuckness of things that characterises the adult world and when they depict childhood- be it the bullying or parentally caused problems they always miss this moving-on-ness of things, the way people always forget, the windows of light in the enshrouding dark of some periods of life.

But my life was not dark. I enjoyed helping a road cleaner pull up weeds in our road. Far away at the end of the road somewhere lived the famous Radio broadcaster Richard Baker. Sometimes he was seen by friends of my mother’s but not ever by my parents who had little time for celebrities. When a jaguar car overtook us my dad would mutter ‘pop stars and criminals’ are the only ones who drive these.

I went up the road on my trike quite a long way in the general direction of Richard Baker’s house but I turned back because of the magnetic pull of our house and the fact that I knew I was never meant to go far. One day however a new boy I liked call Anthony invited me to come round after school. I knew I was not allowed to do this but he explained he only lived one road over from me. It seemed grown-up to just go with him but halfway there I realised I was quite a long way from my house and did not in fact know the way home. I told him I had forgotten that I had to be home and left him. Excuses when you are a child can be anything. They can be purely symbolic. No one argues with them you just make them and go but you have to have one. If you can’t think of a good enough one you stew in silence and go along with whatever happens even though you feel no part of it and that you are being held there against your will.

So I made my excuse and headed down the road towards what I thought was my road but it wasn’t. I went down this long road and slowly I began to realise that I was lost, though everywhere looked familiar. I was not scared but I knew it would take some time to get home. I was troubled that my mum would be worried but not overly so. I kept wandering down streets that all looked a bit similar to mine but none were. However I knew that by a process of elimination (words I naturally did not know but the concept I did already grasp) I would eventually get to my road. So I was not worried. Then I saw something familiar cycling towards me: my mum on her bike with my little sister in her seat on the back. She had come out searching for me. My mum was furious and did not listen to my logical reasoning about eventually it being absolutely certain I would get home. I could not see why she was upset. For many years I never understood adult anger at things that seemed quite logical to me.