computational_art_theory_research

Week 2: /* Genesis */


// genesis as an algorithm 

//Reflection on reading: When Algorithms Learned How to Write by Mercedes Bunz


//celestial rules

godSays string = make “string” so;

godCalls = define; 



//setting it all up

void inTheBeginning() {

background(255);

}



void create() {

if (formless && empty) {

godCreate(heavens);

godCreate(earth);

}



if(GodSaysString(){

(“Let there be light”);

ambientLight(128, 128, 128);

//good



("Let there be a vault between the waters to separate water from water”); 

create(sky);

//good

(“Let the water under the sky be gathered to one place, and let dry ground appear”);

create(seas);

creat(land);

//good



(“Let the land produce vegetation: seed-bearing plants and trees on the land that bear fruit with seed in it, according to their various kinds”);

create(vegetation);

create([lants);

create(seeds);

//good



(“Let there be lights in the vault of the sky to separate the day from the night, and let them serve as signs to mark sacred times, and days and years, and let them be lights in the vault of the sky to give light on the earth”):

create(sun);

create(moon);

create(stars);

//good



(“Let the water teem with living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth across the vault of the sky”);

create(animals); //sea and birds

//good



“Let the land produce living creatures according to their kinds: the livestock, the creatures that move along the ground, and the wild animals, each according to its kind”);

create(animals); //who live on lands 

//good



(“Let us make man in our image, in our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth”);

create(male human, dust of ground, breath);

}else it{

}



if(GodCalls(var = “name”) {

defines(var = light, var = darkness, var = sky, var = land, var = seas);

//good

}else if{

if(!GodCalls) {

var = undefined;

}



//chapter 2



/ifGodCommands() {

command(“You are free to eat from any tree in the garden; but you must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil”);

defines(string “food” = !apples









Week 1: Sprit


It can be hard to use small bits, you see

but that is why I care to show you how 

True, I am not so good at this. So be

it. But a smart man said I would by now 


know how to find the keys in all this hay

and stack them up. Might there be a good way

to break the mold that small words hold me in 

and learn to ask as you have: what did they


do that made such a rift in sense? And when

can we do it? Just once, for our selves. Then 

I might not be I. But we can be we. 

For me, that would be just fine. A young wren


sang me a song when I woke up, for she 

had heard me say my name was Eve. "What glee."

That was the first thing that I thought. "So brave

of her to come out of her tree." For me! 


You see, by then I had left my warm cave

and it was nice to hear a voice that gave

a sense of hope that my cold would soon go 

and I might see and smell and hear and crave


for one thing more. Back then, I longed to know. 

How nice to give that up. To watch the show

from some back row,  just me, the screen. I used 

to have some good light bulbs in my head. Though- 


I could not calm the waves that wore a rut

of fear in me that should have said "oh, Hi." 


But no rhymes ring with those. I could have fused

two that, when one, made sense. I had no cues,

and with no lead, how could I start to note

all that I hoped to make. So I chose used


once more. What could help me? A knife? A rote? 

It might have been a code. I begged, I wrote

to friends for help with how to speak. I mused

this way for some time. Then I- with my coat 


in hand- left the cave. Light! I thought I might

have found the sight I sought. Day fought the night

for me to hear the song. A wren's warm throat

sang long to me. I shook in fits. Cold bites,


you know. My wren sang her  June song. A plum

fell from its tree. "That makes no sense. How come

that fruit was ripe in cold? But what a sight

it was- a plum in snow. By then quite numb


I left its bloom to rot. I thought I ought

to grab it. But, you see, the warmth I sought

was hot and ripe and not the dead fruit from 

my dream. Right then, I knew what God had wrought:


a lost hope in the me that was, a fright 

that I might cause a stir or make a dent, 

that I might break the code of man. She's right, 

my wren. We might still be magnificent. 


A reflection on Computational Art Theory week 1 readings:

A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking

A Fish Can’t Judge the Water” by Femke Snelting

Algorithm” by Tarleton Gillespie