current Exhibition
Hallgerður Hallgrímsdóttir & Nina Zurier: Bystander / Sjónarvottur
January 17 - February 22, 2025
In 1935, Walter Benjamin published his essay The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction. At that time, it would still be fifteen years before the first ideas about artificial intelligence emerged, and it is unlikely that Benjamin could have imagined what AI would be capable of today, 90 years after the essay’s publication.
Nina Zurier employs innovative methods to create her photographs, using the assistance of the AI program Adobe Firefly. Her initial experiments involved working solely with word lists, but she soon began incorporating visual examples. She then sifted through the outputs, selecting the images that resonated most with her and using them as examples for subsequent generations of images, continuing her collaborative process with the AI, so to speak. The photographs in this exhibition are, therefore, derivatives of derivatives—third or fourth-generation results of Nina’s photographic collaboration with AI.
It is thus not entirely accurate to talk about these works as reproductions, as Benjamin does in his essay, because AI consistently generates new and ever-changing outcomes. Before writing about the mechanical reproduction of art, Walter Benjamin penned his essay The Task of the Translator, published in 1923. In it, Benjamin introduced the idea of “pure language,” which he described as a perfect language beyond all individual languages. This pure language is not an actual language but rather a spiritual state or ideal toward which all languages strive. In his view, translation is a means to approach pure language by connecting and mediating between languages.
Perhaps one could think of AI as another form of translation, a way of reaching toward some kind of ideal beyond language—a spiritual state, in a sense. Nina says:
"Did I ‘take’ these photographs? Literally, yes. I ‘took’ them when I chose to download (and save) them. And in a more nuanced photo-process language, I set up the shot through my choice of prompt words: location (dark night Iceland), subject (white barn), medium (glass plate negative), effects (deteriorated emulsion reflection). Then I developed them through digital filters and other software as per usual in my photo process."
Yet what we see in these images has never existed—not, at least, in the way we usually understand that phrase.
Nina’s photographs depict artificial landscapes that are nonetheless so familiar it feels as though we’ve been there. We’ve seen precisely this white barn, stood in that very spot, perhaps on that same dark night. The photograph is not only developed onto paper and hung in a gallery but also—perhaps even more so—in the mind of the viewer. This is what gives the work its value, regardless of its origins: the encounter with the viewer’s awareness. Upon closer inspection, the "technical glitches" of the AI become apparent, revealing its nature and shifting the image into the realm of the subconscious. It becomes dreamlike.
Through repeated commands and visual prompts, Nina attempts to approach a world beyond this one—a world she can perhaps imagine but finds nearly impossible to describe in words.
In Hallgerður’s work, by contrast, we observe a reality that has existed. However, Hallgerður herself was not a witness to the reality depicted in the black-and-white photographs; instead, she came into possession of glass plates documenting it. These stereographs were taken during World War I. She juxtaposes them with color photographs of vegetation she captured on the fortress islands of Suomenlinna in Helsinki, where the Swedes began constructing fortifications in 1748. Of the found stereographs, she says:
“They depict unequivocal destruction caused by humans but do not show the battles themselves. They reveal little about conditions or strategy, show neither horror nor triumph. They seem neither suited to inspire continued warfare nor to highlight reasons to end it. The composition and the layers of technique and time that have settled over them make them aesthetically suitable for contemplation. There is space within them for reflection.”
We all belong to a certain reality, surrounded by consequences, effects, and traces to which we have become accustomed. Hallgerður presents us with images of a reality that is—or has been—but the photographs do not focus on the horrors of war or its consequences, though these are ever-present. The subject is the earth, the trees, the vegetation—sometimes with ruins scattered among them.
We probably all want to believe that humanity has an innate drive to beautify, improve, and transform for the better. To cultivate gardens and plant seeds of beauty. And the flowers of Suomenlinna are indeed beautiful, as they appear in Hallgerður’s photographs. Instead of destruction, a word that inevitably arises when viewing the black-and-white images, the mind turns to new beginnings, to life, even hope. Yet not everything is as it seems:
“The soil of the islands is so contaminated by military activity that it is inadvisable to disturb it without the intervention of experts. The inhabitants therefore import soil from the mainland to cultivate their gardens.”
Hallgerður’s mind is occupied by war, as is likely the case for many of us. The powerlessness in the face of warfare, which is so difficult to justify, can easily paralyze us. For the first time in history, images and videos reach us almost in real time. Something fractures within us; a part of us wants to shield ourselves from the truth. Hallgerður describes it this way:
“The guilt that overwhelmed me surprised me—the guilt of wishing I had never seen those images of the world’s cruelty. Of wanting to avoid seeing the true horrors experienced by others through photography. Don’t we at least owe it to those living through hell on earth to bear witness to what is being done to them?”
We must not close our eyes to the suffering of others. Within us must burn hope and the will to fight for a just world. To protect the future, we must ensure we do not forget the past—and bear witness to our present.
-Halla Þórlaug Óskarsdóttir
Nina Zurier employs innovative methods to create her photographs, using the assistance of the AI program Adobe Firefly. Her initial experiments involved working solely with word lists, but she soon began incorporating visual examples. She then sifted through the outputs, selecting the images that resonated most with her and using them as examples for subsequent generations of images, continuing her collaborative process with the AI, so to speak. The photographs in this exhibition are, therefore, derivatives of derivatives—third or fourth-generation results of Nina’s photographic collaboration with AI.
It is thus not entirely accurate to talk about these works as reproductions, as Benjamin does in his essay, because AI consistently generates new and ever-changing outcomes. Before writing about the mechanical reproduction of art, Walter Benjamin penned his essay The Task of the Translator, published in 1923. In it, Benjamin introduced the idea of “pure language,” which he described as a perfect language beyond all individual languages. This pure language is not an actual language but rather a spiritual state or ideal toward which all languages strive. In his view, translation is a means to approach pure language by connecting and mediating between languages.
Perhaps one could think of AI as another form of translation, a way of reaching toward some kind of ideal beyond language—a spiritual state, in a sense. Nina says:
"Did I ‘take’ these photographs? Literally, yes. I ‘took’ them when I chose to download (and save) them. And in a more nuanced photo-process language, I set up the shot through my choice of prompt words: location (dark night Iceland), subject (white barn), medium (glass plate negative), effects (deteriorated emulsion reflection). Then I developed them through digital filters and other software as per usual in my photo process."
Yet what we see in these images has never existed—not, at least, in the way we usually understand that phrase.
Nina’s photographs depict artificial landscapes that are nonetheless so familiar it feels as though we’ve been there. We’ve seen precisely this white barn, stood in that very spot, perhaps on that same dark night. The photograph is not only developed onto paper and hung in a gallery but also—perhaps even more so—in the mind of the viewer. This is what gives the work its value, regardless of its origins: the encounter with the viewer’s awareness. Upon closer inspection, the "technical glitches" of the AI become apparent, revealing its nature and shifting the image into the realm of the subconscious. It becomes dreamlike.
Through repeated commands and visual prompts, Nina attempts to approach a world beyond this one—a world she can perhaps imagine but finds nearly impossible to describe in words.
In Hallgerður’s work, by contrast, we observe a reality that has existed. However, Hallgerður herself was not a witness to the reality depicted in the black-and-white photographs; instead, she came into possession of glass plates documenting it. These stereographs were taken during World War I. She juxtaposes them with color photographs of vegetation she captured on the fortress islands of Suomenlinna in Helsinki, where the Swedes began constructing fortifications in 1748. Of the found stereographs, she says:
“They depict unequivocal destruction caused by humans but do not show the battles themselves. They reveal little about conditions or strategy, show neither horror nor triumph. They seem neither suited to inspire continued warfare nor to highlight reasons to end it. The composition and the layers of technique and time that have settled over them make them aesthetically suitable for contemplation. There is space within them for reflection.”
We all belong to a certain reality, surrounded by consequences, effects, and traces to which we have become accustomed. Hallgerður presents us with images of a reality that is—or has been—but the photographs do not focus on the horrors of war or its consequences, though these are ever-present. The subject is the earth, the trees, the vegetation—sometimes with ruins scattered among them.
We probably all want to believe that humanity has an innate drive to beautify, improve, and transform for the better. To cultivate gardens and plant seeds of beauty. And the flowers of Suomenlinna are indeed beautiful, as they appear in Hallgerður’s photographs. Instead of destruction, a word that inevitably arises when viewing the black-and-white images, the mind turns to new beginnings, to life, even hope. Yet not everything is as it seems:
“The soil of the islands is so contaminated by military activity that it is inadvisable to disturb it without the intervention of experts. The inhabitants therefore import soil from the mainland to cultivate their gardens.”
Hallgerður’s mind is occupied by war, as is likely the case for many of us. The powerlessness in the face of warfare, which is so difficult to justify, can easily paralyze us. For the first time in history, images and videos reach us almost in real time. Something fractures within us; a part of us wants to shield ourselves from the truth. Hallgerður describes it this way:
“The guilt that overwhelmed me surprised me—the guilt of wishing I had never seen those images of the world’s cruelty. Of wanting to avoid seeing the true horrors experienced by others through photography. Don’t we at least owe it to those living through hell on earth to bear witness to what is being done to them?”
We must not close our eyes to the suffering of others. Within us must burn hope and the will to fight for a just world. To protect the future, we must ensure we do not forget the past—and bear witness to our present.
-Halla Þórlaug Óskarsdóttir