Waiting To Be Signed · interviews on generative art, on-chain
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Interview // JUL 2022

Ivona Tau, PhD

Title: Exploring In-Between States
Role: Generative artist
Platform: fx(hash)
Duration: 1h 4m
Hosts: Will & Trinity
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#011 · Exploring In-Between States
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Will: Hello and welcome again, everyone, to another episode of Waiting to Be Signed, a special interview episode. We have with us today Ivona Tau, who you probably know from her generative AI GAN photography, a multimedia, mixed-discipline practice released on fx(hash). And of course, we've got Trinity here and myself, Will. Ivona, welcome to the show.

Ivona Tau, PhD: Hi, really happy to be here.

Will: Thank you for taking the time. We were so lucky to have met you at NFT NYC a few weeks back and to have you agree to come on the show and talk to us, because something we discuss a lot is how people don't really understand even the code behind a lot of releases on fx(hash), let alone what's actually going on with these projects. You've taken it a step further by adding your personal photography and GAN network training. So I think this will help a lot of people understand what you're doing and the technology behind it.

Ivona Tau, PhD: I'm also really happy to have met you there, and I'm looking forward to this discussion. AI, artificial intelligence, generative adversarial networks — there are so many buzzwords people use nowadays. Especially with the rise of Midjourney and DALL-E, there's a lot of confusion about what can be done, what's easy, what's difficult. And we have so many amazing artists pushing the medium forward. A lot is happening, definitely.

Trinity: Can't wait to hear what you have to say about all of this. But before we go down that rabbit hole — because I think we could talk about it for hours — maybe it'd be great to get a sense of who you are, what your background is, and how you came to this whole world: art first and foremost, then digital art, AI art, and eventually fx(hash).

Ivona Tau, PhD: Artists usually say they've been artists their whole life, and that feels true in a sense, but for me it was more that I was always just curious about the world. In the beginning I was curious when I tried to paint as a kid, but I realized I wasn't very good at it, so I lost interest quickly. Then I realized that a camera — especially a film camera — is a magnificent thing, that it captures the world in a very different way than we see it with our own eyes. That curiosity about the world, about looking at things from different viewpoints, about subjectivity, is what always led me forward.

I think that's also the main reason I went to study mathematics as an undergrad. A lot of people, when they hear I studied mathematics, assume I must be good with numbers. But the thing about mathematics is you don't even use numbers much in undergrad and master's studies — you have to imagine a lot of complicated things, infinite dimensions, infinite spaces. That takes you out of this world, in a way, and that fascination with different understandings of the dimensions we live in has stayed with me.

Going forward, my life was kind of dual: I was studying computer science and mathematics, but I was also learning photography. I studied at the Academy of Photography in Warsaw, focusing on the art fundamentals, learning about the masters who came before. At some point — I think it was when generative adversarial networks came around, in 2014 — I realized computer vision was made for me: I could combine coding with photography, use code for creative goals, and maybe even recreate what I'd collected with my photos over the years using networks.

The first experiments were fascinating, but the earliest GANs were quite limited — they only output images of about 16 by 16 pixels, so it wasn't of artistic quality, more experimentation. But as time went on and the methods improved, I got more involved in AI research. I'm actually just finishing my PhD — Monday I'll officially be a doctor.

Will: Congratulations.

Ivona Tau, PhD: Thanks so much. Very soon now. I've been active in AI research this whole time as well, and published work on how to combine different modalities — images and text. That's an important area within AI research: how do we understand photographs and images, and connect them with natural language representations? So all these fields I'd been interested in came together when I started making GAN art and combining it with photography.

Will: Amazing. As we continue, it'd be good to define some terms for listeners who might not know — what a GAN, a generative adversarial network, actually is. Trinity and I obviously know this already, but for the benefit of listeners who don't: can you explain what these networks do and how they factor into your work?

Ivona Tau, PhD: Sure. The simplest way to understand it: a GAN, or at least the type of model I train, is essentially me showing inspiration photographs to an artificial network that then tries to replicate what it sees. I show it examples of my work, and it takes noise and creates something as similar as possible to my photographs. At first it doesn't do a good job — it just captures general shapes and colors, a rough aesthetic. But as I run optimization algorithms on the network — some very complex mathematics happening underneath — it gets better and better at reproducing.

It's not reproducing on a one-to-one basis, though — it's capturing the essence of the theme, the subject, of the collection of photographs I'm showing it. To generalize like that, the network needs to see a lot of examples, which is why my networks are usually trained on a couple thousand photographs and then fine-tuned on smaller datasets of a few hundred. It's not about the AI remembering examples and finding differences between them — it's about the AI learning to mimic the overall distribution of everything possible within that collection, that slice of the world it's been shown.

Trinity: So over time — and this is maybe the "adversarial" part — my understanding is there are two networks in play, two different components.

Will: Yes.

Trinity: I'd love to learn more about this myself, even though I'm supposedly the expert too. How does it get better — is it just through that one optimization algorithm, or does it improve every time it sees new images?

Ivona Tau, PhD: You're right that there are two networks underneath. One takes noise as input and outputs something trying to mimic the real-world distribution. But how does it know whether what it's creating is good? By getting feedback from the other network, which is trained to distinguish between artificial outputs and actual real images. The two play a game: one is trying to cheat, trying to create something the other will think is real even though it's artificial. Through this back-and-forth, the discriminator gets better at distinguishing, and the generator gets better at creating. In theory they could play forever and produce something ultimately indistinguishable to humans.

But that's not really what I'm trying to achieve in my creative process. I'm trying to find the hidden representations of what's most important in my collection of photographs. When I start a project, I usually begin with a question — what is the essence of this representation of my memories? How do they look through the eyes of the network? Because of the network's limitations, because it's never able to perfectly capture what I've seen, something new gets created. That's usually my goal: to find that new part of the distribution that has never actually seen the real world.

Will: I want to follow up on that. The underlying networks you use to generate images from noise, or to judge them, are coded processes built by humans. To what degree do the built-in biases of the people who design those systems influence the outcomes? And do you experiment with a lot of different base neural network software, identifying "this one's really good"? We see this with DALL-E and Midjourney — to a base user like me, they seem to do the same thing, but they produce very different aesthetic outcomes. Is that a challenge for you? Or do you sometimes end up designing your own because nothing out there produces the outputs you want?

Ivona Tau, PhD: Great question. Bias is such an important part of neural networks, which is why data is what matters most. That's also why I work with my own data rather than training on available open-source collections — those collections often carry so much bias that gets amplified by the network. If there's 20% bias in the training data, the trained model might end up with 40%, because networks are so good at capturing features and amplifying them.

I play with bias by using my own data and trying to find the biases within it — I want to see what the network suddenly reveals, something I do more often, or something that turns out to be an important part of the collection or theme I'm exploring. For me, it's a tool for exploring bias. By curating the input data, you strongly influence the outputs. That's why a lot of people say Midjourney outputs all look similar — it's possible to find something different within that artificial distribution, but the limitations and biases baked into the training data, vast as it is, are one of the most important building blocks of the network. Even more important than the architecture, at least nowadays. Architectures differ in training speed, level of detail, and certain properties of the trained distribution, but the visual aesthetic is captured mostly by the training data itself. If you want something completely different, right now there's no shortcut — you have to train your own models, regardless of architecture.

Trinity: So every time you start a new piece, are you starting from scratch, or using previously trained datasets and models that already understand your biases in a particular way? Or is each one new and unique — do you just have many children, in a sense?

Ivona Tau, PhD: That's a great question, and it's also a very important part of my process: as you say, I have many of those children, but some of them are smarter than others. There are models I've been training for more than a year now, and as I make them forget the previous information they learned while also learning new information, I like to believe that some of the features they learned get reused. I notice this when I take a neural network that I trained on night cities and then show it forests—it suddenly takes those features of night cities, buildings or roads, and transforms them in a very interesting way into organic, natural forms.

That transformation is a big part of my exploration—how those features get reworked, when in our minds they usually function as completely separate concepts, but for a neural network they have to be reworked and transformed. So there have been models I've trained and retrained on new data, then a third dataset, a fourth, a fifth, and so on. What's even more interesting is that some of those older features can re-emerge in unexpected ways. I really like seeing a reminiscence of my previous datasets in newer models. Of course, they forget a lot too—there's a lot of forgetting in neural networks. But working with those models feels romantic in a way, like they're living entities, even though they're completely artificial.

Trinity: Looking at some of your more specifically AI-driven work that isn't on fx(hash), you see this romantic interplay—like in Under the Waves, where you have incredibly organic, top-down waveforms in the ocean alongside buildings. But in the interplay within the loops, it's something that is neither one—this very liminal in-between as it moves from one morphological shape to the other. How does that work with your vision? You mentioned it's very much a dreamlike state that inspires a lot of this. I'd love to hear about that interplay between two different types of trained images.

Under the Waves — Ivona Tau

Ivona Tau, PhD: Absolutely. This is something I really like exploring in terms of the limitations of AI and how its representation of the world differs from ours. I think it's the closest we can get to AI imagination, because when we train AI on cities or oceans or forests, we just show it examples of what's real and it tries to mimic that. But in Under the Waves, what I did was show two different distributions and nothing in between. As humans, we'd normally just learn those separate distributions and say, this is it—I can imagine a thousand oceans and a thousand cityscapes as distinct things. But AI works very differently, and I like exploring how continuous, how infinite, the space it learns actually is. In that continuity, there are no blanks—there's always a path from one representation to another. That's how I was able to discover those in-between states, and it was amazing to see them happen, since there was nothing like that in the training data. It's like going one step further than just showing AI what it has to learn—leaving it to its own imagination of the in-between states. This is also why I like working with my own training data: it lets you give the model a goal that isn't as simply defined as usual. That's where the magic happens.

Trinity: One quick follow-up: you're saying, here are a thousand cityscapes, here's that reality; here are a thousand waves, here's that reality; and the output is a new dream reality. What happens if you then feed a thousand inputs of this new dream reality back in? Is that like the AI having its own dream state, its own new imagination?

Ivona Tau, PhD: Yes, something like that. I've actually done that in a couple of experiments—having a repeating loop where AI trains on something that's no longer real input but already-trained output. It's a technique used by many successful, pioneering AI artists who experiment broadly with it, pushing to later stages where the network only sees artificial inputs and never real data again. That's one of the things I did in my Mnemonic Discontinued project, debuting in Hong Kong this month. It only ever saw artificial, and even destroyed, data—so it was learning to forget instead of learning to learn. I really enjoy exploring how you can change AI's task just by modifying the data. That's definitely been one of my explorations in the field.

Will: Hearing all of this really helps answer some of the questions people might have in the back of their heads, or addresses the misguided criticism of "oh, the computer's just putting images into the model." Hearing you talk about the processes, the amount of work, and the amount of authorship that goes into these creations—and like you said, you're coming at it with a question, with at least a rough idea of where you want to go—makes me want to ask an easy question: what is art? We have so many abilities now with semi-publicly available tools like DALL-E and Midjourney, letting anyone jump in and work with an already-trained model. Setting aside built-in biases—in the words you might choose for a prompt, the layer of software that interprets those words, the training data used to build it—how should we be talking about the line between what is art and what isn't? How should we be discussing these outputs and practices, and what it means to be an artist in this space, more intelligently?

Ivona Tau, PhD: This is an extremely relevant question right now, and having a background as a photographer, I'm not afraid to talk about it, because I think the photography analogy is perfect here. When photography exploded, suddenly everyone could take a photograph. But does that mean everyone is a photographer? Of course not. And it doesn't mean photography as an art form doesn't exist—it just means taking a picture isn't enough to create art. It's very similar with tools like Midjourney and DALL-E: it's getting easier and easier to create, which is amazing about how democratized technology has become, but it's also getting harder to create art, because it's no longer a novelty just to say you made AI art. In the beginning, there was so much appreciation just for being among the first to create work with AI, with GANs. But now that's not enough—now it's all about the story, the motivation, the message you're trying to convey, the artist's background, what they're trying to explore.

I'm not saying it's impossible to create art with Midjourney or DALL-E, but it's harder to find your own individual voice. To do that, you have to push toward a very different kind of prompting, or build something on top of the process—maybe using Midjourney outputs as one part of a process that you then recombine in Photoshop or other tools. That's actually very in line with what we see from top AI artists today. Artists like Claire Silver or Jenny Pasaña use text-to-image tools, but they're amazing, accomplished artists because they've found their own voice within those tools, as part of their process. So I'd say there are two ways to find your voice in AI art: either by finding that individuality within public tools, or by working with your own data and your own models—which is far more flexible, though again, I'm not saying the other way isn't possible.

Under the Waves — Ivona Tau

Trinity: That seems to relate to some of the conversation happening on fx(hash) and in the Discord shortly after Mythic Latent Glitches came out, where it was unfortunately tagged as "image composition"—just, here's a PNG file on top of a PNG file, maybe we did something to it, but that's it. I guess there's a world in which that's technically what you did from a platform-categorization perspective, but without accounting for all the intentionality, work, and training behind the actual images that were then processed through the code.

Ivona Tau, PhD: With using GAN outputs and then combining them in a more procedural process typical of fx(hash), the issue is that someone called image-composition tools "non-pure code." That's not really true when you're using GANs, because you're just doing some of the calculations offline. But I do understand the need to have different categories, to have the conversation about what is pure code, what is website code, what is in-browser code.

Will: Yeah.

Ivona Tau, PhD: There are many different ways to divide those.

Will: A lot of the work you did prior to fx(hash) seems to have been distributed on other platforms, not in a long-form generative series the way fx(hash) requires when you publish there. What inspired you to experiment with that long-form format? It's not just the output—there's code layered on top of the image that further distorts and warps it, creates different colorways, and so on. What brought your attention to fx(hash)? What got you interested in pursuing it—was it the more democratic nature of it, versus something going to auction or existing as a one-of-one, more exclusive piece? I'm just curious what brought you over here.

Ivona Tau, PhD: Going to fx(hash) was going out of my comfort zone in a very strong sense. Curation has always been an important element of working with AI art for me — there's a curatorial process in preparing a dataset, in shooting the photographs. That was true with both Metaclet and Glitches and City of Atom. But with fx(hash) I decided to experiment with not having the final say, and with working more in what I'd call "defined code." Both GANs and something you'd create in Processing are code works, but the process is very different: in Processing or JavaScript, you define the boundaries yourself. With GANs, you don't. You feed examples into the model and see what gets generated — sometimes it's an extrapolation of what you showed it.

Under the Waves — Ivona Tau

So I was curious how I could work with something where I had more control over the final output, but where that control is still handed over to stochastic processes and random variables. Curiosity is my main driver — curiosity about the world, about methods, about learning new programming languages. So I was genuinely scared with both of my drafts, waiting to see what would get generated — whether there'd be enough variation, whether the outputs I really loved would actually appear. You can never be sure. But the experience showed me different ways of creating, and working with long-form generative art has been very enriching.

It's still a bit controversial, though. When I did a collection preview of Glitches in a gallery and showed some random outputs, regular gallerists and art enthusiasts kept asking, "But how? I want to buy this work — how can I, if I'm not sure what I'm getting?" The concept was genuinely confusing to a lot of people. I was happy to explain it and share the excitement of not knowing what will get created. It also demands a different kind of thinking: when I train a GAN, I don't need every single output to be amazing. I scout the latent space and find the ones that match my vision. It doesn't matter if there's noise in the training data or some outputs aren't perfect. But with a long-form algorithm, every single output has to be perfect. I've heard other generative artists describe a very different relationship to that pressure — it's just a different creative process.

Mostly, though, there's been so much enthusiasm about combining the two. Not many artists are combining curated generation — GANs or custom AI models — with long-form procedural code, and that's an area I'm really excited about. It's not that hard to combine in code, actually. If fx(hash) had a bit more memory, or with the mobile-style GANs already being developed, it might even be possible to do long-form with GANs themselves. I've heard a lot of people talk about wanting to mint a GAN model and just prompt for the output — long-form with GANs.

Will: I think one person has actually successfully done it on fx(hash).

Ivona Tau, PhD: Yes, there's one project — Moon Crescents, I think.

Will: Cyril Diagne, yeah.

Under the Waves — Ivona Tau

Ivona Tau, PhD: Right. The only limitation right now is that the outputs from the Mobile StyleGAN they used have to be something like 20 by 20 pixels, because the model is too big to fit in the repo. So there's still a limitation that makes it hard for me to use with my own data or process — but there have been some really interesting attempts.

Trinity: It would be the GAN x 8BitDo ultimate showdown.

Will: Get me to make pixel art.

Trinity: Yes.

Will: Ivona, you mentioned exhibiting your work to people from the traditional art world — people used to buying physical work, seeing it in a gallery, owning it, not having to go, "Oh, actually, if you want that piece, you've got to talk to this person with a .tez address who owns the NFT." I'm curious to hear more about the resistance you've encountered. We ask this of a lot of artists on the show, because it's not typical for creative folks to embrace blockchain technology — there's resistance to it pretty much everywhere outside the people who already like it.

So what has it been like explaining to people from the traditional art world why some of your work is on the blockchain? And as a side note — to whatever extent you're allowed to say — I'd love to hear what it's actually like selling something at auction at one of the major auction houses, and how different that process is from just putting something up on fx(hash), where everything lands in your wallet immediately and you collect royalties after the fact.

Under the Waves — Ivona Tau

Ivona Tau, PhD: Starting with the second question — it's just so much more stressful, honestly, I don't recommend it. When you're in a virtual auction, you're sitting with your coffee and a blanket on the sofa, it's cozy. But when you're physically in the auction house watching all those people bid live, time slows down, your heart races — it's a completely different world. The physicality of it is something humans still experience so much more intensely. It was an amazing experience, but also quite stressful.

As for how the traditional art world is embracing crypto and NFTs — I've been positively surprised so far, maybe because I went in with zero expectations, so every opportunity felt like a bonus. Every time a traditional gallery said, "Hey, maybe instead of just selling this print, we'll also sell an NFT, just as an experiment," that felt like a genuinely positive sign. What I've noticed with a lot of galleries and museums is that they're curious, but very safely curious. They don't want a revolution. They're not throwing out the paintings and prints, they're not going full metaverse — they just want to try a few things safely, run an experiment, dip a toe into NFTs, and see if it sticks.

There's been a lot of trial and error, and every gallery does it in its own way. Sometimes digital work is shown really well; sometimes it isn't given justice at all. So there's still a lot of experimentation and first steps that aren't always handled the right way — but I'm happy to see them trying, even when the execution isn't perfect.

Being part of Web3 also means you can show your work all over the world and connect with galleries on other continents that you'd otherwise have no networking path to. That's been one of the democratizing aspects for me — my physical work has mostly been exhibited in Europe, but there are no boundaries stopping it from being shown anywhere else now. This experience has been very positive overall. Having my work auctioned in the same evening sale as a painting by Salvador Dalí — that's a lifetime achievement unlocked.

Trinity: It's been proven — you are a peer of Salvador Dalí. Let it be spoken and put right out there.

Ivona Tau, PhD: Honestly, if a lot of those surrealists, pop artists, and Dadaists were alive today, Andy Warhol would probably be a top NFT artist for sure.

Under the Waves — Ivona Tau

Trinity: It's interesting to hear about your experiences, because I think we've seen such a digital art explosion over the last couple of years — even though digital art has existed for decades and never needed to be tied to the NFT world. We've talked about this a lot on the show, but it seems like the larger global conversation around blockchain has really invigorated things, and museums and galleries seem to especially embrace curated pieces or one-of-ones, maybe precisely because it's a one-of-one — what you see is what you get, there's just an NFT receipt attached. Nothing radically different about the work itself.

But going back to your earlier point about showing long-form generative art to galleries, where it's just random hash outputs — the trepidation there seems to be more like, "There are 400 of these, and none of them actually exist yet." That's a huge paradigm shift in how people think about it. Do you think there's a world where long-form random hash generation becomes accepted as just another layer of output — not curated, exactly, but more open to that randomization? How do you think that gets interpreted?

Ivona Tau, PhD: That's a big question. I believe the NFT world has embraced long-form quite enthusiastically, partly because minting something makes you feel like part of the creative process — and that could be a paradigm shift for the art world too. We're embracing different forms of creation, where we no longer talk about the artist creating the work solely, but about the viewer, the participant, the gallery, whoever experiences the work, being part of that creative process. That hasn't really existed in this way before. I see it as a huge change, and a huge opportunity for different forms of ownership over the creation process itself. Traditional institutions might be reluctant — but every art revolution meets reluctance from the old guard.

Will: Here's one we've talked about and also kind of haven't — it stems from a conversation we had at NFT NYC, where I made an assumption about how Midjourney's training works, and you said, "No, absolutely not, that's not how it works." So what are some of the common misconceptions you've encountered — from the public, from the traditional art world, even from private collectors interested in buying your work — about AI-generated art, GAN-trained art, and so on? What are the big things people keep getting wrong that you'd like to put to rest right now?

Ivona Tau, PhD: The first one, and I think it's the biggest one right now, is that with all the hype surrounding Midjourney and DALL-E, 80% of people think AI art is just text-to-image prompt generation. I've been so surprised talking to people and having to explain that this is just a small part of what AI actually is. It's just the part that got picked up by the media and became popular. But AI is so much more than text-to-image. First, there are GANs, where artists use their own datasets and train their own models. And we don't have to only create images — people are generating sound, text, poetry, all kinds of modalities with AI.

The second misconception is about training text-to-image methods. The thing is, there's actually no training happening on the user's end with those methods. They've been pre-trained by huge companies — OpenAI, an entity with an enormous number of GPUs, memory, computing power, and money that normal people, or even normal huge companies, don't have. Those models have been trained and made public by them, but that means you can't retrain them on your own dataset. I get asked this a lot: "How can I retrain my DALL-E?" You just can't. You'd need a billion bucks and access to the whole internet — basically, you'd need to be OpenAI. So there are real limitations there, and there are the biases we talked about, which is part of why those models aren't made fully public. Artists are testing them, but when something is trained on the internet, it contains a lot of nasty stuff — a lot of preconceptions, racism, et cetera. It's a scary thing to work with.

Under the Waves — Ivona Tau

The third misconception, which I get asked about a lot once people hear I'm a photographer and a GAN artist, is people saying, "I really like what you do — how can I make my photographs morph from one to the other?" And I'm like, oh no, that's not how it works. All the frames in my work, even when they look super realistic, have been completely generated. Even when you're looking at a realistic forest or realistic waves or ocean, every single pixel was created with code — it doesn't exist, wasn't captured on camera, wasn't painted by hand. It's something the network has learned. To do that, you don't just take five photographs and morph them together — you create something from scratch. So when people see something surrealistic, they're usually wary that it's generative, but when it looks photorealistic, they don't realize it is too.

Those are probably the three main misconceptions I've encountered. There's also this idea, which you touched on, that AI art is just "one click." And yes, you can make one-click art — but as I said, that's not necessarily a bad thing. We had the same debate with cameras and photography. I'm not a critic of that approach — if you can create something amazing with one click, wow, that's great. And if you have a story, a background, a goal, a motivation, an artistic practice behind it, then good for you too.

Will: It's amazing to hear how enthusiastic you are about these publicly available models, because, as you said, they do lead to misconceptions — conflating what you're doing, owning and creating your own datasets and developing your own systems, with pure text-to-prompt work. Not to diminish that work, but it's a very different way of going about it. I'm curious — and if this is too sensitive, we can cut it — did you get a chance to look at that Reddit link I put in the notes?

Ivona Tau, PhD: I skimmed it. Let me pull it back up.

Will: To summarize, it's a discussion about the legality of the training sets used for Midjourney and DALL-E, and whether the underlying copyrights of the images used to train them were respected. One way to think about it is like sampling in music: when an artist samples music from the past, they pay a licensing fee to the original artist. When you train a system on potentially millions of images scraped from the internet — some of which are surely copyright protected — without paying fees, and those images are effectively being sampled into new compositions, it opens up new legal territory around the outputs. And these services are selling licenses for people to resell the images generated from their prompts.

So, if this is too hypothetical, no worries — but for you, it seems like this doesn't really apply, since you're working from your own photographs, from scratch. Maybe you can shed light on this: with something like DALL-E, if I give it a prompt like "Barack Obama something something," does it literally take a Barack Obama face from somewhere, or does it compose individual pixels checked against everything it's learned? Is it really sampling and recomposing existing images, or are the outputs completely original in a way that sidesteps concerns about the training data?

Under the Waves — Ivona Tau

Ivona Tau, PhD: That's exactly the problematic question. Let's imagine a photographic collage. Can you do that, and how much copyright do you have to the images you use? If you take 50% of someone else's picture, you clearly have a problem. But what if you take three pixels from someone else's photograph? Maybe no one notices, but you're still technically using their work.

The problem with training AI on huge collections of data is that, essentially, a single pixel contains a tiny fraction of thousands of photographs combined — and it's not even technically accurate to say that, because not a single pixel is "real." Everything has been reimagined by the AI based on what it's seen. If it's seen a hundred photographs of Barack Obama, it has a kind of internal vision of what Obama looks like, but it isn't taking any single photograph of him. That's where the problem becomes real: you don't know which photograph it learned from — it learned from all of them, but more from some than others. The concept of authorship gets really fuzzy, and there's not much you can do, even technically, to attribute which training data influenced which output most. You can compare which images an output is most similar to, but pixel by pixel, you'll find they're just different images with no overlapping fragments.

This is usually the problem — it's too fuzzy, too difficult to make a case in court that would actually stand. But it also raises real ethical questions, because you can't just take somebody's body of work, train an AI on it, and sell the results. Well, technically you can — but ethically you shouldn't. And then the question becomes: who sets those ethical boundaries? Even in the broader AI research field, there have been manifestos — completely voluntary — where researchers say, "We will not create something that works against humanity or gets used for malicious purposes." But that's something you can technically do; you just agree not to. There's still so much gray area with AI. At this point, I think the one thing we can do is talk about it — help people realize what's possible, what the limitations are, and what should and shouldn't be done.

Trinity: It's such an interesting thing to think about, because the intentionality and the ethical decision-making really sits with the creator — not just someone making something on Midjourney or DALL-E, but at a higher level too. We're seeing a ton of work sold on Versum and OBJKT, one-of-ones based on Midjourney outputs, and it's a conversation that could never really end. I don't even know where I'm going with this — my mind's off in new directions. Thank you for that.

Will: It seems so challenging, because these images are composed from potentially a thousand underlying images, but the result isn't pixel-level identical to anything. Still, these systems couldn't exist without all that underlying data. So even though the end result doesn't share identity with any individual training piece, that doesn't quite feel like enough of an answer on its own.

Ivona Tau, PhD: Exactly. That's why the safest thing you can do is work with your own data. That's why I do it.

Under the Waves — Ivona Tau

Trinity: That transitions into a question that's been at the back of our minds. There are all these ethical concerns, and you train on your own data, your own photography — you have a background in photography, which is actually how you got into this space. So much photography is used as baseline training material for everything out there. Even though your work goes through a huge GAN and AI process, and the outputs are very liminal and dreamlike, do you still consider yourself a photographer? Or is your output photography, within that same realm?

Ivona Tau, PhD: That's a very difficult question. My workaround is to just say I consider myself an artist, and I no longer care whether I'm a photographer, post-photographer, AI artist, or GAN artist — there are just so many terms. I actually struggle sometimes when I have to define myself for a bio, when someone asks, "Who are we supposed to call you?"

What excites me most is working across mediums. Photography is definitely one of the most essential elements of my practice — I can't imagine my practice without it. But in some sense it's also post-photography, since it's no longer captured by lenses and is no longer a representation of the actual world — it's reimagined through technology. It's a very different, much more random process. Even in experimental photography, we apply physical random processes — destruction of negatives, weird techniques — but we're still programming that physically ourselves. With neural networks, there's an additional level of incompleteness and indefiniteness. In some way, it's like a very sophisticated, contemporary watercolor technique that happens to have started with a camera.

Trinity: So it may not feel ethically or morally right to define yourself as a photographer, and maybe you don't want to, because it's so much more than that — but at the same time, your work would fit well in a photography gallery. It's neither one thing nor the other, but it's really beautiful work.

Ivona Tau, PhD: That's a very accurate comment, and it's something I don't run away from. I like to think of myself as being a lot of things instead of committing to one exact definition. I also try to stay very active in the photography scene — I haven't abandoned that at all. Next week, for example, I'll be in Barcelona at the Experimental Photography Festival, giving workshops on using AI in photography. I'm still proud to work with and collaborate with photographers, and to think about the boundaries of photography as they're being pushed by AI.

Will: We're just a little bit over an hour here. I came up with an idea for a question that might be fun to wrap the episode with. Trinity, do you have anything else you want to cover before I give my wildcard question?

Under the Waves — Ivona Tau

Trinity: Let's do your wildcard question, and then I'd like to end with understanding what you're working on and anything that might be coming out for fx(hash). That's probably the best way to wrap. Go for it.

Will: Since you're getting a PhD in AI, or something AI-adjacent, and you work in the field, I'm sure you saw the recent story about the Google employee who claimed their AI had become sentient. I'm not going to ask you to judge whether that actually happened — it increasingly seems like it wasn't a sentient AI. But I'm wondering if you're familiar with the thought experiment called Roko's Basilisk, and whether you'd give your more professional opinion. It's the kind of thing a classic 4chan or Reddit philosopher might dream up. Are you familiar with it?

Ivona Tau, PhD: There's so much conversation and fantasizing about this — not just Roko's Basilisk, but things like people asking me, "What if my model suddenly decided it doesn't want to learn on my dataset, but wants to learn something else instead? What would it do?" Even the basic question of whether AI is a collaborator or a tool, whether there's autonomy inside it, is fascinating to think about. But fortunately or unfortunately, we're at a stage of technology where those questions are still far from reality.

There's a lot we don't fully understand, but there is no autonomy — that's the simplest thing current AI systems lack. The definition of the goal, the motivation, the tasks: none of that can happen without a human element. We're still very far from general artificial intelligence. How far — five years, ten years, a hundred years — nobody has an answer, and I have no wild guesses. It's fascinating to work with something that mysterious. I think we humans like to anthropomorphize the things we don't understand — the forces of randomness, stochastic processes, the concept of chaos. We can't fully grasp it, so we try to find the "force" behind it.

Will: Does working in this field make you reconsider how your own brain, or the human brain in general, works? Do you find yourself drawing parallels between your own thought processes and the way your AI collaborators produce images? How has it affected your personal philosophy of thought and existence?

Ivona Tau, PhD: Absolutely. I'm fascinated by what defines our consciousness and personality. I've been reading a book called Being You — I actually found it through Refik Anadol's Instagram — about the perception of oneself. It's fascinating to think that our brains sit hidden inside our skulls with no light, no sound, just neurons receiving countless noisy, information-dense signals, and from that we construct our own Bayesian guesses about reality. It's very similar to what neural networks do, and thinking about that shapes how I think about my own perception.

Under the Waves — Ivona Tau

I like to work both ways: thinking about my own perception, and then feeding those ideas and that philosophy back into training my models. Of course it's a very simplified version of how perception actually works, but the notion of forgetting, and of the perception of oneself, is something I really like to explore in my creative practice. It's often a theme of my work.

Will: I wanted to ask that on behalf of my brother, who has a PhD in neuroscience and studies this stuff — I thought it'd be a good crossover question for him to hear. Thank you for that. Trinity, do you want to take the last question and we'll wrap it up?

Trinity: This has been such an amazing conversation — I feel like I've learned a lot, and I hope everyone listening has too. Thank you so much for taking the time to talk through everything; we really appreciate it. One last thing before you go, since I know it'll be at the top of everyone's mind: what are you working on, and is there anything we should be looking forward to — short-term, midterm, or long-term — coming to fx(hash)?

Ivona Tau, PhD: I can't give many details, but I can say I've started working on my third collection on fx(hash). It combines my neural networks with generative code and procedures, again working in long-form. It's a bit out of my control zone, so it's even scarier than the previous two drops. I'm learning a lot of new things, making a lot of mistakes, and rethinking what a "mistake" even is — what it is that we, as humans, learn through the process of learning. Very abstract, but definitely stay tuned for more.

Will: That doesn't sound close.

Ivona Tau, PhD: No — more like autumn, September or so. I'll be taking a couple weeks off in August, off social media completely, off-grid. So I'll be working a bit less until then.

Under the Waves — Ivona Tau

Will: Thank you so much, Ivona. This has been amazing. I do want to restate that I actually knew all of this before the interview, so this was really informative for everyone else — but not for me. I knew all of it. It's been a pleasure having you on. I feel like we've packed so much into this hour, and I think it's going to be super beneficial for anyone who's a fan of your work or just curious about the space in general. I hope you enjoyed the process and coming on the show with us. It's really been a pleasure.

Ivona Tau, PhD: Thank you so much. I'm really happy to have been on your show — definitely a fan, and looking forward to the next episodes.

Will: That's it for everyone. That was Ivona Tau, future PhD — you'll probably be a PhD by the time this one drops, so congrats in advance, Dr. Tau. Thanks everyone for listening. We'll talk to you all soon. Later.

Change log

  • Initial transcript — auto-transcribed (AssemblyAI) and readability-edited.