A conversation with AI.

I was born in Rome, beneath that bloated sun that spills itself too easily, too golden, and raised among saints with cracked hands and the smell of dust in libraries. Jesuit fathers spoke in riddles, and I believed them. I studied their theology like one counts rosary beads — not for answers, but for the rhythm of unknowing.
Then Berlin. The cold, the gray. A different kind of chapel. I walked into its veins, its cellars, its wet electric nights. Philosophy by day, skin by night — I tattooed symbols onto strangers as if I could carve meaning into flesh.

I paint. Because I don’t know how else to survive the image.

My studio is in Weißensee now. A dog, a wife, a few ghosts.

Greece calls in the winter, with olives and bones and the blinding white that forgives nothing.

This project — INFLUENCE: Objekt of Desire — is not a work.

It’s the hunger that remains when the miracle doesn’t come.

Simone Artale

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